SONGS   AND   SATIRES 


By 
EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

AUTHOR  OF 
"  SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY  " 


KTefo  gorfc 

THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  March,  1916. 
Reprinted  March,  1916. 


Norfajooti 

J.  8.  Cashing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A.. 


FOR  permission  to  print  in  book  form  certain  of 
these  poems  I  wish  to  acknowledge  an  indebted 
ness  to  Poetry,  The  Smart  Set,  The  Little  Review, 
The  Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  and  William  Marion 
Reedy,  Editor  of  Reedy' s  Mirror. 


33^75 


CONTENTS 


SILENCE i 

ST.  FRANCIS  AND  LADY  CLARE 4 

THE  COCKED  HAT 10 

THE  VISION 18 

-  So  WE  GREW  TOGETHER 21 

RAIN  IN  MY  HEART 31 

-  THE  LOOP 32 

WHEN  UNDER  THE  ICY  EAVES 40 

IN  THE  CAR 41 

SIMON  SURNAMED  PETER 43 

ALL  LIFE  IN  A  LIFE 47 

WHAT  You  WILL 56 

THE  CITY 57 

THE  IDIOT 65 

HELEN  OF  TROY 68 

O  GLORIOUS  FRANCE 71 

FOR  A  DANCE 74 

WHEN  LIFE  is  REAL 76 

THE  QUESTION 78 

THE  ANSWER 79 

THE  SIGN 80 

WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 82 

A  STUDY 85 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN 88 

v  IN  THE  CAGE 91 


[vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

SAVING  A  WOMAN:   ONE  PHASE 95 

LOVE  is  A  MADNESS 97 

ON  A  BUST 98 

ARABEL 101 

JIM  AND  ARABEL'S  SISTER 108 

THE  SORROW  OF  DEAD  FACES.        .        .        .        .        .        .116 

THE  CRY  . .119 

THE  HELPING  HAND 120 

THE  DOOR 121 

SUPPLICATION    . 122 

THE  CONVERSATION 125 

TERMINUS 130 

MADELINE 132 

MARCIA 134 

THE  ALTAR 135 

SOUL'S  DESIRE  . 137 

BALLAD  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND  ELAINE 140 

THE  DEATH  OF  LAUNCELOT 149 

IN  MICHIGAN 156 

THE  STAR  166 


[viii] 


SONGS   AND    SATIRES 


SONGS   AND   SATIRES 

SILENCE 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea, 
And  the  silence  of  the  city  when  it  pauses,   «~ 
And  the  silence  of  a  man  and  a  maid, 
And  the  silence  for  which  music  alone  finds  the  word, 
And  the  silence  of  the  woods  before  the  winds  of  spring 

begin, 

And  the  silence  of  the  sick 
When  their  eyes  roam  about  the  room. 
And  I  ask  :   For  the  depths 
Of  what  use  is  language  ? 
A  beast  of  the  field  moans  a  few  times 
When  death  takes  its  young : 

And  we  are  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  realities  — 
We  cannot  speak. 

A  curious  boy  asks  an  old  soldier 
Sitting  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 
"How  did  you  lose  your  leg  ?" 
And  the  old  soldier  is  struck  with  silence, 
Or  his  mind  flies  away, 
Because  he  cannot  concentrate  it  on  Gettysburg. 


'  'SONGS'  AND  SATIRES 

It  comes  back  jocosely 

And  he  says,  "A  bear  bit  it  off." 

And  the  boy  wonders,  while  the  old  soldier 

Dumbly,  feebly  lives  over 

The  flashes  of  guns,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 

The  shrieks  of  the  slain, 

And  himself  lying  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hospital  surgeons,  the  knives, 

And  the  long  days  in  bed. 

But  if  he  could  describe  it  all 

He  would  be  an  artist. 

But  if  he  were  an  artist  there  would  be  deeper  wounds 

Which  he  could  not  describe. 

There  is  the  silence  of  a  great  hatred, 
And  the  silence  of  a  great  love, 
And  the  silence  of  a  deep  peace  of  mind, 
And  the  silence  of  an  embittered  friendship. 
There  is  the  silence  of  a  spiritual  crisis, 
Through  which  your  soul,  exquisitely  tortured, 
Comes  with  visions  not  to  be  uttered 
Into  a  realm  of  higher  life. 
And  the  silence  of  the  gods  who  understand  each  other 

without  speech. 
There  is  the  silence  of  defeat. 
There  is  the  silence  of  those  unjustly  punished ; 
And  the  silence  of  the  dying  whose  hand 
Suddenly  grips  yours. 

[2] 


SILENCE 

There  is  the  silence  between  father  and  son, 
When  the  father  cannot  explain  his  life, 
Even  though  he  be  misunderstood  for  it. 

There  is  the  silence  that  comes  between  husband  and 

wife. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  who  have  failed ; 
And  the  vast  silence  that  covers 
Broken  nations  and  vanquished  leaders. 
There  is  the  silence  of  Lincoln, 
Thinking  of  the  poverty  of  his  youth. 
And  the  silence  of  Napoleon 
After  Waterloo. 

And  the  silence  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 
Saving  amid  the  flames,  "Blessed  Jesus"  — 
Revealing  in  two  words  all  sorrow,  all  hope. 
v-And  there  is  the  silence  of  age, 
Too  full  of  wisdom  for  the  tongue  to  utter  it 
In  words  intelligible  to  those  who  have  not  lived 
The  great  range  of  life. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
If  we  who  are  in  life  cannot  speak 
Of  profound  experiences, 
Why  do  you  marvel  that  the  dead 
Do  not  tell  you  of  death  ? 
Their  silence  shall  be  interpreted 
As  we  approach  them. 

[3] 


ST.   FRANCIS  AND  LADY  CLARE 

Antonio  loved  the  Lady  Clare. 

He  caught  her  to  him  on  the  stair 

And  pressed  her  breasts  and  kissed  her  hair, 

And  drew  her  lips  in  his,  and  drew 

Her  soul  out  like  a  torch's  flare. 

Her  breath  came  quick,  her  blood  swirled  round ; 

Her  senses  in  a  vortex  swound. 

She  tore  him  loose  and  turned  around, 

And  reached  her  chamber  in  a  bound 

Her  cheeks  turned  to  a  poppy's  hue. 

She  closed  the  door  and  turned  the  lock, 
Her  breasts  and  flesh  were  turned  to  rock. 
She  reeled  as  drunken  from  the  shock. 
Before  her  eyes  the  devils  skipped, 
She  thought  she  heard  the  devils  mock. 
For  had  her  soul  not  been  as  pure 
As  sifted  snow,  could  she  endure 
Antonio's  passion  and  be  sure 
Against  his  passion's  strength  and  lure  ? 
Lean  fears  along  her  wonder  slipped. 

Outside  she  heard  a  drunkard  call, 
She  heard  a  beggar  against  the  wall 

[4] 


ST.  FRANCIS  AND  LADY  CLARE 

Shaking  his  cup,  a  harlot's  squall 
Struck  through  the  riot  like  a  sword, 
And  gashed  the  midnight's  festival. 
She  watched  the  city  through  the  pane, 
The  old  Silenus  half  insane, 
The  idiot  crowd  that  drags  its  chain  — 
And  then  she  heard  the  bells  again, 
And  heard  the  voices  with  the  word : 

Ecco  il  santo  !     Up  the  street 
There  was  the  sound  of  running  feet 
From  closing  door  and  window  seat, 
And  all  the  crowd  turned  on  its  way 
The  Saint  of  Poverty  to  greet. 
He  passed.     And  then  a  circling  thrill, 
As  water  troubled  which  was  still, 
Went  through  her  body  like  a  chill, 
Who  of  Antonio  thought  until 
She  heard  the  Saint  begin  to  pray. 

And  then  she  turned  into  the  room 
Her  soul  was  cloven  through  with  doom, 
Treading  the  softness  and  the  gloom 
Of  Asia's  silk  and  Persia's  wool, 
And  China's  magical  perfume. 
She  sickened  from  the  vases  hued 
In  corals,  yellows,  greens,  the  lewd 
Twined  dragon  shapes  and  figures  nude, 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  tapestries  that  showed  a  brood 
Of  leopards  by  a  pool ! 

Candles  of  wax  she  lit  before 
A  pier  glass  standing  from  the  floor ; 
Up  to  the  ceiling,  off  she  tore 
With  eager  hands  her  jewels,  then 
The  silken  vesture  which  she  wore. 
Her  little  breasts  so  round  to  see 
Were  budded  like  the  peony. 
Her  arms  were  white  as  ivory, 
And  all  her  sunny  hair  lay  free 
As  marigold  or  celandine. 

Her  blue  eyes  sparkled  like  a  vase 
Of  crackled  turquoise,  in  her  face 
Was  memory  of  the  mad  embrace 
Antonio  gave  her  on  the  stair, 
And  on  her  cheeks  a  salt  tear's  trace. 
Like  pigeon  blood  her  lips  were  red. 
She  clasped  her  hands  above  her  head. 
Under  her  arms  the  waxlight  shed 
Delicate  halos  where  was  spread 
The  downy  growth  of  hair. 

Such  sudden  sin  the  virgin  knew 
She  quenched  the  tapers  as  she  blew 
Puff  !  puff  !  upon  them,  then  she  threw 
Herself  in  tears  upon  her  knees, 
[6] 


ST.  FRANCIS  AND  LADY  CLARE 

And  round  her  couch  the  curtain  drew. 
She  called  upon  St.  Francis'  name, 
Feeling  Antonio's  passion  maim 
Her  body  with  his  passion's  flame 
To  save  her,  save  her  from  the  shame 
Of  fancies  such  as  these ! 

"Go  by  mad  life  and  old  pursuits, 
The  wine  cup  and  the  golden  fruits, 
The  gilded  mirrors,  rosewood  flutes, 
I  would  praise  God  forevermore 
With  harps  of  gold  and  silver  lutes." 
She  stripped  the  velvet  from  her  couch 
Her  broken  spirit  to  avouch. 
She  saw  the  devils  slink  and  slouch, 
And  passion  like  a  leopard  crouch 
Half  mirrored  on  the  polished  floor. 

Next  day  she  found  the  saint  and  said  : 
I  would  be  God's  bride,  I  would  wed 
Poverty  and  I  would  eat  the  bread 
That  you  for  anchorites  prepare, 
For  my  soul's  sake  I  am  in  dread. 
Go  then,  said  Francis,  nothing  loth, 
Put  off  this  gown  of  green  snake  cloth, 
Put  on  one  somber  as  a  moth, 
Then  come  to  me  and  make  your  troth 
And  I  will  clip  your  golden  hair. 

[7] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

She  went  and  came.     But  still  there  lay, 

A  gem  she  did  not  put  away, 

A  locket  twixt  her  breasts,  all  gay 

In  shimmering  pearls  and  tints  of  blue, 

And  inlay  work  of  fruit  and  spray. 

St.  Francis  felt  it  as  he  slipped 

His  hand  across  her  breast  and  whipped 

Her  golden  tresses  ere  he  clipped  — 

He  closed  his  eyes  then  as  he  gripped 

The  shears,  plunged  the  shears  through. 

The  waterfall  of  living  gold. 

The  locks  fell  to  the  floor  and  rolled, 

And  curled  like  serpents  which  unfold. 

And  there  sat  Lady  Clare  despoiled. 

Of  worldly  glory  manifold. 

She  thrilled  to  feel  him  take  and  hide 

The  locket  from  her  breast,  a  tide 

Of  passion  caught  them  side  by  side. 

He  was  the  bridegroom,  she  the  bride  — 

Their  flesh  but  not  their  spirits  foiled. 

Thus  was  the  Lady  Clare  debased 
To  sack  cloth  and  around  her  waist 
A  rope  the  jeweled  belt  replaced. 
Her  feet  made  free  of  silken  hose 
Naked  in  wooden  sandals  cased 
Went  bruised  to  Bastia's  chapel,  then 
[8] 


ST.  FRANCIS  AND  LADY  CLARE 

They  housed  her  in  St.  Damian 
And  here  she  prayed  for  poor  women 
And  here  St.  Francis  sought  her  when 
His  faith  sank  under  earthly  woes. 

Antonio  cursed  St.  Clare  in  rhyme 
And  took  to  wine  and  got  the  lime 
Of  hatred  on  his  soul,  in  time 
Grew  healed  though  left  a  little  lame, 
And  laughed  about  it  in  his  prime ; 
When  he  could  see  with  crystal  eyes 
That  love  is  a  winged  thing  which  flies ; 
Some  break  the  wings,  some  let  them  rise 
From  earth  like  God's  dove  to  the  skies 
Diffused  in  heavenly  flame. 


[9] 


THE  COCKED  HAT 

Would  that  some  one  would  knock  Mr.  Bryan  into  a  cocked 
hat.  —  WOODROW  WILSON. 

It  ain't  really  a  hat  at  all,  Ed : 
You  know  that,  don't  you  ? 
When  you  bowl  over  six  out  of  the  nine  pins, 
And  the  three  that  are  standing 
Are  the  triangular  three  in  front, 
You've  knocked  the  nine  into  a  cocked  hat. 
If  it  was  really  a  hat,  he  would  be  knocked  in,  too. 
Which  he  hardly  is.     For  a  man  with  money, 
And  a  man  who  can  draw  a  crowd  to  listen 
To  what  he  says,  ain't  all-in  yet.  .  .  . 
Oh  yes,  defeated 

And  killed  off  a  dozen  times,  but  still 
He's  one  of  the  three  nine  pins  that's  standing  .  .  . 
Eh  ?     Why,  the  other  is  Teddy,  the  other 
Wilson,  we'll  say.     We'll  see,  perhaps. 
But  six  are  down  to  make  the  cocked  hat  — 
That's  me  and  thousands  of  others  like  me, 
And  the  first-rate  men  who  were  cuffed  about 
After  the  Civil  War, 

And  most  of  the  more  than  six  million  men 
Who  followed  this  fellow  into  the  ditch, 

[10] 


THE  COCKED  HAT 

While  he  walked  down  the  ditch  and  stepped  to  the 

level  — 
Following  an  ideal ! 


Do  you  remember  how  slim  he  was, 

And  trim  he  was, 

With  black  hair  and  pale  brow, 

And  the  hawk-like  nose  and  flashing  eyes, 

Not  turning  slowly  like  an  owl 

But  with  a  sudden  eagle  motion  ?  .  .  . 

One  time,  in  '96,  he  came  here 

And  we  had  just  a  dollar  and  sixty  cents 

In  the  treasury  of  the  organization. 

So  I  stuck  his  lithograph  on  a  pole 

And  started  out  for  the  station. 

By  the  time  we  got  back  here  to  Clark  street 

Four  thousand  men  were  marching  in  line, 

And  a  band  that  was  playing  for  an  opening 

Of  a  restaurant  on  Franklin  street 

Had  left  the  job  and  was  following  his  carriage. 

Why,  it  took  all  the  money  Mark  Hanna  could  raise 

To  beat  me,  with  nothing  but  a  pole 

And  a  lithograph. 

And  it  wasn't  because  he  was  one  of  the  prophets 

Come  back  to  earth  again. 

It  shows  how  human  hearts  are  hungry 

in] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

How  wonderfully  true  they  are  — 

And  how  they » will  rise  and  follow  a  man 

Who  seems  to  see  the  truth ! 

Well,  these  fellows  who  marched  are  the  cocked  hat, 

And  I  am  the  cocked  hat  and  the  six  millions, 

And  more  are  the  cocked  hat, 

Who  got  themselves  despised  or  suspected 

Of  ignorance  or  something  for  being  with  him. 

But  still,  he's  one  of  the  pins  that's  standing. 

He  got  the  money  that  he  went  after, 

And  he  has  a  place  in  history,  perhaps  — 

Because  we  took  the  blow  and  fell  down 

When  the  ripping  ball  went  wild  on  the  alley. 

******* 
For  we  were  radicals, 
And  he  wasn't  a  radical. 
Eh  ?     Why,  a  radical  stands  for  freedom, 
And  for  truth  —  which  he  never  finds 
But  always  looks  for. 
A  radical  is  not  a  moralist. 
A  radical  doesn't  say  : 
"This  is  true  and  you  must  believe  it; 
This  is  good  and  you  must  accept  it, 
And  if  you  don't  believe  it  and  accept  it 
We'll  get  a  law  and  make  you, 
And  if  you  don't  obey  the  law,  we'll  kill  you  — " 
Oh  no !    A  radical  stands  for  freedom. 

******* 

[12] 


THE  COCKED  HAT 

Do  you  remember  that  banquet  at  the  Tremont 

In  '97  on  Jackson's  day  ? 

Bryan  and  Altgeld  walked  together 

Out  to  the  banquet  room. 

That's  the  time  he  said  the  bolters  must 

Bring  fruits  meet  for  repentance  —  ha !  ha !  Oh, 
Gawd !  — 

They  never  did  it  and  they  didn't  have  to, 

For  they  had  made  friends  of  the  mammon  of  un 
righteousness, 

Even  as  he  did,  a  little  later,  in  his  own  way. 

Well,  Darrow  was  there  that  night. 

I  thought  it  was  terribly  raw  in  him, 

But  he  said  to  Bryan,  there,  in  a  group : 

"You'd  better  go  back  to  Lincoln  and  study 

Science,  history,  philosophy, 

And  read  Flaubert's  Madam  something-or-other, 

And  quit  this  village  religious  stuff. 

You're  head  of  the  party  before  you  are  ready 

And  a  leader  should  lead  with  thought." 

And  Bryan  turned  to  the  others  and  said  : 

"Darrow's  the  only  man  in  the  world 

Who  looks  down  on  me  for  believing  in  God." 

"Your  kind  of  a  God,"  snapped  Darrow. 

Honest,  Ed,  I  didn't  see  this  religious  business 

In  Bryan  in  '96  or  1900. 

Oh  well,  I  knew  he  went  to  Church, 

And  talked  as  statesmen  do  of  God  — 

[13] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

But  McKinley  did  it,  and  I  used  to  laugh : 
"We've  got  a  man  to  match  McKinley, 
And  it's  good  for  us,  in  a  squeeze  like  this, 
We  didn't  nominate  some  fellow 
Ethical  culture  or  Unitarian." 
You  see,  the  newspapers  and  preachers  then 
Were  raising  such  a  hullabaloo 
About  irreligion  and  dishonesty, 
And  calling  old  Altgeld  an  anarchist, 
And  comparing  us  to  Robespierre 
And  the  guillotine  boys  in  France. 
And  a  little  of  this  religion  came  in  handy. 
The  same  as  if  you  saw  a  Mason  button  on  me, 
You'd  know,  you  see  —  but  Gee ! 
He  was  24-carat  religious, 
A  cover-to-cover  man.  .  .  . 
He  was  a  trained  collie, 
And  he  looked  like  a  lion, 

There  in  the  convention  of  '96  —  What  do  you  know 
about  that  ? 


But  right  here,  I  tell  you  he  ain't  a  hypocrite, 

This  ain't  a  pose.     But  I'll  tell  you : 

In  '96  when  they  knocked  him  out, 

I  know  what  he  said  to  himself  as  well 

As  if  I  heard  him  say  it  ... 

I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute. 


THE  COCKED  HAT 

But  suppose  you  were  giving  a  lecture  on  the  constitution, 

And  you  got  mixed  on  your  dates, 

And  the  audience  rotten-egged  you, 

And  some  one  in  the  confusion 

Stole  the  door  receipts, 

And  there  you  were,  disgraced  and  broke ! 

But  suppose  you  could  just  change  your  clothes, 

And  lecture  to  the  same  audience 

On  the  religious  nature  of  Washington, 

And  be  applauded  and  make  money  — 

You'd  do  it,  wouldn't  you  ? 

Well,  this  is  what  Bill  said  to  himself : 

"I'm  naturally  regular  and  religious. 

I'm  a  moral  man  and  I  can  prove  it 

By  any  one  in  Marion  County, 

Or  Jacksonville  or  Lincoln,  Nebraska. 

I'm  a  radical,  but  a  radical 

Alone  can  be  religious. 

I  belong  to  the  church,  if  not  to  the  bank, 

Of  the  people  who  defeated  me. 

And  I'll  prove  to  religious  people 

That  I'm  a  man  to  be  trusted  — 

And  just  what  a  radical  is. 

And  I'll  make  some  money  while  winning  the  votes 

Of  the  churches  over  the  country."  .  .  . 

That's  it  —  it  ain't  hypocrisy, 
It's  using  what  you  are  for  ends, 

[15] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

When  you  find  yourself  in  trouble. 
*     And  this  accounts  for  "The  Prince  of  Peace"  — 
Except  no  one  but  him  could  write  it  — 
And  "The  Value  of  an  Ideal"  - 
(Which  is  money  in  bank  and  several  farms)  .  . 

His  place  in  history  ? 

One  time  my  grandfather,  who  was  nearly  blind, 

Went  out  to  sow  some  grass  seed. 

They  had  two  sacks  in  the  barn, 

One  with  grass  seed,  one  with  fertilizer, 

And  he  got  the  sack  with  fertilizer, 

And  scattered  it  over  the  ground, 

Thinking  he  was  sowing  grass. 

And  as  he  was  finishing  up,  a  grandchild, 

Dorothy,  eight  years  old, 

Followed  him,  dropping  flower  seeds. 

Well,  after  a  time 

That  was  the  greatest  patch  of  weeds 

You  ever  saw !     And  the  old  man  sat, 

Half  blind,  on  the  porch,  and  said : 

"Good  land,  that  grass  is  growing!" 

And  there  was  nothing  but  weeds  except 

A  few  nasturtiums  here  and  there 

That  Dorothy  had  sown.  .  .  . 

Well,  I  forgot. 

There  was  a  sunflower  in  one  corner 

That  looked  like  a  man  with  a  golden  beard 

[id] 


THE  COCKED  HAT 

And  a  mass  of  tangled,  curly  hair  — 
And  a  pumpkin  growing  near  it.  ... 


Say,  Ed !  lend  me  eighty  dollars 
To  pay  my  life  insurance. 


17] 


THE  VISION 

Of  that  dear  vale  where  you  and  I  have  lain 
Scanning  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death 
I  dreamed,  though  how  impassable  the  space 
Of  time  between  the  present  and  the  past ! 
This  was  the  vision  that  possessed  my  mind ; 
I  thought  the  weird  and  gusty  days  of  March 
Had  eased  themselves  in  melody  and  peace. 
Pale  lights,  swift  shadows,  lucent  stalks,  clear  streams, 
Cool,  rosy  eves  behind  the  penciled  mesh 
Of  hazel  thickets,  and  the  huge  feathered  boughs 
Of  walnut  trees  stretched  singing  to  the  blast ; 
And  the  first  pleasantries  of  sheep  and  kine ; 
The  cautioned  twitterings  of  hidden  birds ; 
The  flight  of  geese  among  the  scattered  clouds ; 
Night's  weeping  stars  and  all  the  pageantries 
Of  awakened  life  had  blossomed  into  May, 
Whilst  she  with  trailing  violets  in  her  hair 
Blew  music  from  the  stops  of  watery  stems, 
And  swept  the  grasses  with  her  viewless  robes, 
Which  dreaming  men  thought  voices,  dreaming  still. 
Now  as  I  lay  in  vision  by  the  stream 
That  flows  amidst  our  well  beloved  vale, 
I  looked  throughout  the  vista  stretched  between 

[18] 


THE  VISION 

Two  ranging  hills ;  one  meadowed  rich  in  grass  ; 

The  other  wooded,  thick  and  quite  obscure 

With  overgrowth,  rank  in  the  luxury 

Of  all  wild  places,  but  ever  growing  sparse 

Of  trees  or  saplings  on  the  sudden  slope 

That  met  the  grassy  level  of  the  vale ;  — 

But  still  within  the  shadow  of  those  woods, 

Which  sprinkled  all  beneath  with  fragrant  dew, 

There  grew  all  flowers,  which  tempted  little  paths 

Between  them,  up  and  on  into  the  wood. 

Here,  as  the  sun  had  left  his  midday  peak 

The  incommunicable  blue  of  heaven  blent 

With  his  fierce  splendor,  filling  all  the  air 

WTith  softened  glory,  while  the  pasturage 

Trembled  with  color  of  the  poppy  blooms 

Shook  by  the  steps  of  the  swift-sandaled  wind. 

Nor  any  sound  beside  disturbed  the  dream 

Of  Silence  slumbering  on  the  drowsy  flowers. 

Then  as  I  looked  upon  the  widest  space 

Of  open  meadow  where  the  sunlight  fell 

In  veils  of  tempered  radiance,  I  saw 

The  form  of  one  who  had  escaped  the  care 

And  equal  dullness  of  our  common  day. 

For  like  a  bright  mist  rising  from  the  earth 

He  made  appearance,  growing  more  distinct 

Until  I  saw  the  stole,  likewise  the  lyre 

Grasped  by  the  fingers  of  the  modeled  hand. 

Yea,  I  did  see  the  glory  of  his  hair 

[19] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Against  the  deep  green  bay-leaves  filleting 

The  ungathered  locks.     And  so  throughout  the  vale 

His  figure  stood  distinct  and  his  own  shade 

Was  the  sole  shadow.     Deeming  this  approach 

Augur  of  good,  as  if  in  hidden  ways 

Of  loveliness  the  gods  do  still  appear 

The  counselors  of  men,  and  even  where 

Wonder  and  meditation  wooed  us  oft, 

I  cried,  "Apollo"    —  and  his  form  dissolved, 

As  if  the  nymphs  of  echo,  who  took  up 

The  voice  and  bore  it  to  the  hollow  wood, 

By  that  same  flight  had  startled  the  great  god 

To  vanishment.     And  thereupon  I  woke 

And  disarrayed  the  figment  of  my  thought. 

For  of  the  very  air,  magic  with  hues, 

Blent  with  the  distant  objects,  I  had  formed 

The  splendid  apparition,  and  so  knew 

It  was,  alas !  a  dream  within  a  dream ! 


[20 


"SO  WE  GREW  TOGETHER" 

Reading  over  your  letters  I  find  you  wrote  me 
"  My  dear  boy,"  or  at  times  "  dear  boy,"  and  the  envelope 
Said  "master"  —  all  as  I  had  been  your  very  son, 
And  not  the  orphan  whom  you  adopted. 
Well,  you  were  father  to  me !     And  I  can  recall 
The  things  you  did  for  me  or  gave  me : 
One  time  we  rode  in  a  box  car  to  Springfield 
To  see  the  greatest  show  on  earth ; 
And  one  time  you  gave  me  redtop  boots, 
And  one  time  a  watch,  and  one  time  a  gun. 
Well,  I  grew  to  gawkiness  with  a  voice 
Like  a  rooster  trying  to  crow  in  August 
Hatched  in  April,  we'll  say. 
And  you  went  about  wrapped  up  in  silence 
With  eyes  aflame,  and  I  heard  little  rumors 
Of  what  they  were  doing  to  you,  and  how 
They  wronged  you  —  and  we  were  poor  —  so  poor ! 
And  I  could  not  understand  why  you  failed, 
And  why  if  you  did  good  things  for  the  people 
The  people  did  not  sustain  you. 

And  why  you  loved  another  woman  than  Aunt  Susan, 
So  it  was  whispered  at  school,  and  what  could  be  baser, 
Or  so  little  to  be  forgiven  ?  .  .  . 

[21] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

They  crowded  you  hard  in  those  days. 
But  you  fought  like  a  wounded  lion 
For  yourself  I  know,  but  for  us,  for  me. 
At  last  you  fell  ill,  and  for  months  you  tottered 
Around  the  streets  as  thin  as  death, 
Trying  to  earn  our  bread,  your  great  eyes  glowing 
And  the  silence  around  you  like  a  shawl ! 
But  something  in  you  kept  you  up. 
You  grew  well  again  and  rosy  with  cheeks 
Like  an  Indian  peach  almost,  and  eyes 
Full  of  moonlight  and  sunlight,  and  a  voice 
That  sang,  and  a  humor  that  warded 
The  arrows  off.     But  still  between  us 
There  was  reticence ;   you  kept  me  away 
With  a  glittering  hardness ;   perhaps  you  thought 
I  kept  you  away  —  for  I  was  moving 
In  spheres  you  knew  not,  living  through 
Beliefs  you  believed  in  no  more,  and  ideals 
That  were  just  mirrors  of  unrealities. 
As  a  boy  can  be  I  was  critical  of  you. 
And  reasons  for  your  failures  began  to  arise 
In  my  mind  —  I  saw  specific  facts  here  and  there 
With  no  philosophy  at  hand  to  weld  them 
And  synthesize  them  into  one  truth  — 
And  a  rush  of  the  strength  of  youth 
Deluded  me  into  thinking  the  world 
Was  something  so  easily  understood  and  managed 
While  I  knew  it  not  at  all  in  truth. 

[22] 


"SO  WE  GREW  TOGETHER" 

And  an  adolescent  egotism 
Made  me  feel  you  did  not  know  me 
Or  comprehend  the  all  that  I  was. 
All  this  you  divined.  .  .  . 

So  it  went.     And  when  I  left  you  and  passed 
To  the  world,  the  city  —  still  I  see  you 
With  eyes  averted,  and  feel  your  hand 
Limp  with  sorrow  —  you  could  not  speak. 
You  thought  of  what  I  might  be,  and  where 
Life  would  take  me,  and  how  it  would  end  — 
There  was  longer  silence.     A  year  or  two 
Brought  me  closer  to  you.     I  saw  the  play  now 
And  the  game  somewhat  and  understood  your  fights 
And  enmities,  and  hardnesses  and  silences, 
And  wild  humor  that  had  kept  you  whole  — 
For  your  soul  had  made  it  as  an  antitoxin 
To  the  world's  infections.     And  you  swung  to  me 
Closer  than  before  —  and  a  chumship  began 
Between  us.  ... 

What  vital  power  was  yours ! 
You  never  tired,  or  needed  sleep,  or  had  a  pain, 
Or  refused  a  delight.     I  loved  the  things  now 
You  had  always  loved,  a  winning  horse, 
A  roulette  wheel,  a  contest  of  skill 
In  games  or  sports  .  .  .  long  talks  on  the  corner 
W7ith  men  who  have  lived  and  tell  you 

[23] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Things  with  a  rich  flavor  of  old  wisdom  or  humor ; 

A  woman,  a  glass  of  whisky  at  a  table 

Where  the  fatigue  of  life  falls,  and  our  reserves 

That  wait  for  happiness  come  up  in  smiles, 

Laughter,  gentle  confidences.     Here  you  were 

A  man  with  youth,  and  I  a  youth  was  a  man, 

Exulting  in  your  braveries  and  delight  in  life. 

How  you  knocked  that  scamp  over  at  Harry  Varnell's 

When  he  tried  to  take  your  chips !     And  how  I, 

Who  had  thought  the  devil  in  cards  as  a  boy, 

Loved  to  play  with  you  now  and  watch  you  play ; 

And  watch  the  subtle  mathematics  of  your  mind 

Prophecy,  divine  the  plays.     Who  was  it 

In  your  ancestry  that  you  harked  back  to 

And  reproduced  with  such  various  gifts 

Of  flesh  and  spirit,  Anglo-Saxon,  Celt  ?  — 

You  with  such  rapid  wit  and  powerful  skill 

For  catching  illogic  and  whipping  Error's 

Fanged  head  from  the  body  ?  .  .  . 

I  was  really  ahead  of  you 
At  this  stage,  with  more  self-consciousness 
Of  what  man  is,  and  what  life  is  at  last, 
And  how  the  spirit  works,  and  by  what  laws, 
With  what  inevitable  force.     But  still  I  was 
Behind  you  in  that  strength  which  in  our  youth, 
If  ever  we  have  it,  squeezes  all  the  nectar 
From  the  grapes.     It  seemed  you'd  never  lose 

[24] 


"SO  WE  GREW  TOGETHER" 

This  power  and  sense  of  joy,  but  yet  at  times 
I  saw  another  phase  of  you.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  day 

We  rode  together  north  of  the  old  town, 
Past  the  old  farm  houses  that  I  knew  — 
Past  maple  groves,  and  fields  of  corn  in  the  shock, 
And  fields  of  wheat  with  the  fall  green. 
It  was  October,  but  the  clouds  were  summer's, 
Lazily  floating  in  a  sky  of  June  ; 
And  a  few  crows  flying  here  and  there, 
And  a  quail's  call,  and  around  us  a  great  silence 
That  held  at  its  core  old  memories 
Of  pioneers,  and  dead  days,  forgotten  things ! 
I'll  never  forget  how  you  looked  that  day.     Your  hair 
\Vas  turning  silver  now,  but  still  your  eyes 
Burned  as  of  old,  and  the  rich  olive  glow 
In  your  cheeks  shone,  with  not  a  line  or  wrinkle !  — 
You  seemed  to  me  perfection  —  a  youth,  a  man ! 
And  now  you  talked  of  the  world  with  the  old  wit, 
And  now  of  the  soul  —  how  such  a  man  went  down 
Through  folly  or  wrong  done  by  him,  and  how 
Man's  death  cannot  end  all, 
There  must  be  life  hereafter !  .  .  . 

As  you  were  that  day,  as  you  looked  and  spoke, 
As  the  earth  was,  I  hear  as  the  soul  of  it  all 
Godard's  Dazvn,  Dvorak's  Humoresque, 
The  Morris  Dances,  Mendelssohn's  Barcarole, 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  old  Scotch  songs,  When  the  Kye  Come  Hame, 

And  The  Moon  Had  Climbed  the  Highest  Hill, 

The  Musseta  Waltz  and  Rudolph's  Narrative ; 

Your  great  brow  seemed  Beethoven's 

And  the  lust  of  life  in  your  face  Cellini's, 

And  your  riotous  fancy  like  Dumas. 

I  was  nearer  you  now  than  ever  before, 

And  finding  each  other  thus  I  see  to-day 

How  the  human  soul  seeks  the  human  soul 

And  finds  the  one  it  seeks  at  last. 

For  you  know  you  can  open  a  window 

That  looks  upon  embowered  darkness, 

When  the  flowers  sleep  and  the  trees  are  still 

At  Midnight,  and  no  light  burns  in  the  room ; 

And  you  can  hide  your  butterfly 

Somewhere  in  the  room,  but  soon  you  will  see 

A  host  of  butterfly  mates 

Fluttering  through  the  window  to  join 

Your  butterfly  hid  in  the  room. 

It  is  somehow  thus  with  souls.  .  .  . 

This  day  then  I  understood  it  all : 
Your  vital  democracy  and  love  of  men 
And  tolerance  of  life ;   and  how  the  excess  of  these 
Had  wrought  your  sorrows  in  the  days 
When  we  were  so  poor,  and  the  small  of  mind 
Spoke  of  your  sins  and  your  connivance 
With  sinful  men.     You  had  lived  it  down, 

[26] 


"SO  WE  GREW  TOGETHER" 

Had  triumphed  over  them,  and  you  had  grown 

Prosperous  in  the  world  and  had  passed 

Into  an  easy  mastery  of  life  and  beyond  the  thought 

Of  further  conquests  for  things. 

As  the  Brahmins  say,  no  more  you  worshiped  matter, 

Or  scarcely  ghosts,  or  even  the  gods 

With  singleness  of  heart. 

This  day  you  worshiped  Eternal  Peace 

Or  Eternal  Flame,  with  scarce  a  laugh  or  jest 

To  hide  your  worship ;    and  I  understood, 

Seeing  so  many  facets  to  you,  why  it  was 

Blind  Condon  always  smiled  to  hear  your  voice, 

And  why  it  was  in  a  greenroom  years  ago 

Booth  turned  to  you,  marking  your  face 

From  all  the  rest,  and  said,  "There  is  a  man 

Who  might  play  Hamlet  —  better  still  Othello"  ; 

And  why  it  was  the  women  loved  you  ;    and  the  priest 

Could  feed  his  body  and  soul  together  drinking  ^ 

A  glass  of  beer  and  visiting  with  you.  .  .  . 

Then  something  happened : 

Your  face  grew  smaller,  your  brow  more  narrow, 
Dull  fires  burned  in  your  eyes, 

Your  body  shriveled,  you  walked  with  a  cynical  shuffle, 
Your  hands  mixed  the  keys  of  life, 
You  had  become  a  discord. 
A  monstrous  hatred  consumed  you  — 
You  had  suffered  the  greatest  wrong  of  all, 

[27] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

I  knew  and  granted  the  wrong. 

You  had  mounted  up  to  sixty  years,  now  breathing 

hard, 

And  just  at  the  time  that  honor  belonged  to  you 
You  were  dishonored  at  the  hands  of  a  friend. 
I  wept  for  you,  and  still  I  wondered 
If  all  I  had  grown  to  see  in  you  and  find  in  you 
And  love  in  you  was  just  a  fond  illusion  — 
If  after  all  I  had  not  seen  you  aright  as  a  boy : 
Barbaric,  hard,  suspicious,  cruel,  redeemed 
Alone  by  bubbling  animal  spirits  — 
Even  these  gone  now,  all  of  you  smoke 
Laden  with  stinging  gas  and  lethal  vapor.  .  .  . 
Then  you  came  forth  again  like  the  sun  after  storm  — 
The  deadly  uric  acid  driven  out  at  last 
Which  had  poisoned  you  and  dwarfed  your  soul  — 
So  much  for  soul ! 

The  last  time  I  saw  you 

Your  face  was  full  of  golden  light, 

Something  between  flame  and  the  richness  of  flesh. 

You  were  yourself  again,  wholly  yourself. 

And  oh,  to  find  you  again  and  resume 

Our  understanding  we  had  worked  so  long  to  reach  — 

You  calm  and  luminant  and  rich  in  thought ! 

This  time  it  seemed  we  said  but  "yes"  or  "no"  — 

That  was  enough ;   we  smoked  together 

And  drank  a  glass  of  wine  and  watched 

[28] 


"SO  WE  GREW  TOGETHER" 

The  leaves  fall  sitting  on  the  porch.  .  .  . 

Then  life  whirled  me  away  like  a  leaf, 

And  I  went  about  the  crowded  ways  of  New  York. 

And  one  night  Alberta  and  I  took  dinner 

At  a  place  near  Fourteenth  Street  where  the  music 

Was  like  the  sun  on  a  breeze-swept  lake 

When  every  wave  is  a  patine  of  fire, 

And  I  thought  of  you  not  at  all 

Looking  at  Alberta  and  watching  her  white  teeth 

Bite  off  bits  of  Italian  bread, 

And  watching  her  smile  and  the  wide  pupils 

Of  her  eyes,  electrified  by  wine 

And  music  and  the  touch  of  our  hands 

Now  and  then  across  the  table. 

We  went  to  her  house  at  last. 

And  through  a  languorous  evening. 

Where  no  light  was  but  a  single  candle, 

We  circled  about  and  about  a  pending  theme 

Till  at  last  we  solved  it  suddenly  in  rapture 

Almost  by  chance ;   and  when  I  left 

She  followed  me  to  the  hall  and  leaned  above 

The  railing  about  the  stair  for  the  farewell  kiss  — 

And  I  went  into  the  open  air  ecstatically, 

With  the  stars  in  the  spaces  of  sky  between 

The  towering  buildings,  and  the  rush 

Of  wheels  and  clang  of  bells, 

Still  with  the  fragrance  of  her  lips  and  cheeks 

[29] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  glinting  hair  about  me,  delicate 

And  keen  in  spite  of  the  open  air. 

And  just  as  I  entered  the  brilliant  car 

Something  said  to  me  you  are  dead  — 

I  had  not  thought  of  you,  was  not  thinking  of  you. 

But  I  knew  it  was  true,  as  it  was, 

For  the  telegram  waited  me  at  my  room.  .  .  . 

I  didn't  come  back. 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  the  breathless  breath 
Over  your  brow  —  nor  look  at  your  face  — 
However  you  fared  or  where 
To  what  victories  soever  — 
Vanquished  or  seemingly  vanquished  ! 


[30] 


RAIN  IN  MY  HEART 

There  is  a  quiet  in  my  heart 
Like  one  who  rests  from  days  of  pain. 
Outside,  the  sparrows  on  the  roof 
Are  chirping  in  the  dripping  rain. 

Rain  in  my  heart ;   rain  on  the  roof ; 
And  memory  sleeps  beneath  the  gray 
And  windless  sky  and  brings  no  dreams 
Of  any  well  remembered  day. 

I  would  not  have  the  heavens  fair, 
Nor  golden  clouds,  nor  breezes  mild, 
But  days  like  this,  until  my  heart 
To  loss  of  you  is  reconciled. 

I  would  not  see  you.     Every  hope 
To  know  you  as  you  were  has  ranged. 
I,  who  am  altered,  would  not  find 
The  face  I  loved  so  greatly  changed. 


hi] 


THE  LOOP 

From  State  street  bridge  a  snow-white  glimpse  of  sea 

Beyond  the  river  walled  in  by  red  buildings, 

O'ertopped  by  masts  that  take  the  sunset's  gildings, 

Roped  to  the  wharf  till  spring  shall  set  them  free. 

Great  floes  make  known  how  swift  the  river's  current. 

Out  of  the  north  sky  blows  a  cutting  wind. 

Smoke  from  the  stacks  and  engines  in  a  torrent 

Whirls  downward,  by  the  eddying  breezes  thinned. 

Enskyed  are  sign  boards  advertising  soap, 

Tobacco,  coal,  transcontinental  trains. 

A  tug  is  whistling,  straining  at  a  rope, 

Fixed  to  a  dredge  with  derricks,  scoops  and  cranes. 

Down  in  the  loop  the  blue-gray  air  enshrouds, 

As  with  a  cyclops'  cape,  the  man-made  hills 

And  towers  of  granite  where  the  city  crowds. 

Above  the  din  a  copper's  whistle  shrills. 

There  is  a  smell  of  coffee  and  of  spices. 

We  near  the  market  place  of  trade's  devices. 

Blue  smoke  from  out  a  roasting  room  is  pouring. 

A  rooster  crows,  geese  cackle,  men  are  bawling. 

Whips  crack,  trucks  creak,  it  is  the  place  of  storing, 

And  drawing  out  and  loading  up  and  hauling 

Fruit,  vegetables  and  fowls  and  steaks  and  hams, 

[32] 


THE  LOOP 

Oysters  and  lobsters,  fish  and  crabs  and  clams. 

And  near  at  hand  are  restaurants  and  bars, 

Hotels  with  rooms  at  fifty  cents  a  day, 

Beer  tunnels,  pool  rooms,  places  where  cigars 

And  cigarettes  their  window  signs  display ; 

Mixed  in  with  letterings  of  printed  tags, 

Twine,  boxes,  cartels,  sacks  and  leather  bags, 

Wigs,  telescopes,  eyeglasses,  ladies'  tresses, 

Or  those  who  manicure  or  fashion  dresses, 

Or  sell  us  putters,  tennis  balls  or  brassies, 

Make  shoes,  pull  teeth,  or  fit  the  eye  with  glasses. 

And  now  the  rows  of  windows  showing  laces, 
Silks,  draperies  and  furs  and  costly  vases, 
Watches  and  mirrors,  silver  cups  and  mugs, 
Emeralds,  diamonds,  Indian,  Persian  rugs, 
Hats,  velvets,  silver  buckles,  ostrich-plumes, 
Drugs,  violet  water,  powder  and  perfumes. 
Here  is  a  monstrous  winking  eye  —  beneath 
A  showcase  by  an  entrance  full  of  teeth. 
Here  rubber  coats,  umbrellas,  mackintoshes, 
Hoods,  rubber  boots  and  arctics  and  galoshes. 
Here  is  half  a  block  of  overcoats, 
In  this  bleak  time  of  snow  and  slender  throats. 
Then  windows  of  fine  linen,  snakewood  canes, 
Scarfs,  opera  hats,  in  use  where  fashion  reigns. 
As  when  the  hive  swarms,  so  the  crowded  street 
Roars  to  the  shuffling  of  innumerable  feet. 

[33] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Skyscrapers  soar  above  them ;  they  go  by 
As  bees  crawl,  little  scales  upon  the  skin 
Of  a  great  dragon  winding  out  and  in. 
Above  them  hangs  a  tangled  tree  of  signs, 
Suspended  or  uplifted  like  dsedalian 
Hieroglyphics  when  the  saturnalian 
Night  commences,  and  their  racing  lines 
Run  fire  of  blue  and  yellow  in  a  puzzle, 
Bewildering  to  the  eyes  of  those  who  guzzle, 
And  gourmandize  and  stroll  and  seek  the  bubble 
Of  happiness  to  put  away  their  trouble. 

Around  the  loop  the  elevated  crawls, 
And  giant  shadows  sink  against  the  walls 
Where  ten  to  twenty  stories  strive  to  hold 
The  pale  refraction  of  the  sunset's  gold. 
Slop  underfoot,  we  pass  beneath  the  loop. 
The  crowd  is  uglier,  poorer ;  there  are  smells 
As  from  the  depths  of  unsuspected  hells, 
And  from  a  groggery  where  beer  and  soup 
Are  sold  for  five  cents  to  the  thieves  and  bums. 
Here  now  are  huge  cartoons  in  red  and  blue 
Of  obese  women  and  of  skeleton  men, 
Egyptian  dancers,  twined  with  monstrous  snakes, 
Before  the  door  a  turbaned  lithe  Hindoo, 
A  bagpipe  shrilling,  underneath  a  den 
Of  opium,  whence  a  man  with  hand  that  shakes, 
Rolling  a  cigarette,  so  palely  comes. 

[34] 


THE  LOOP 

The  clang  of  car  bells  and  the  beat  of  drums. 

Draft  horses  clamping  with  their  steel-shod  hoofs. 

The  buildings  have  grown  small  and  black  and  worn ; 

The  sky  is  more  beholden ;   o'er  the  roofs 

A  flock  of  pigeons  soars  ;   with  dresses  torn 

And  yellow  faces,  labor  women  pass 

Some  Chinese  gabbling ;   and  there,  buying  fruit, 

Stands  a  fair  girl  who  is  a  late  recruit 

To  those  poor  women  slain  each  year  by  lust. 

'Tis  evening  now  and  trade  will  soon  begin. 

The  family  entrance  beckons  for  a  glass 

Of  hopeful  mockery,  the  piano's  din 

Into  the  street  with  sounds  of  rasping  wires 

Filters,  and  near  a  pawner's  window  shows 

Pistols,  accordions ;   and,  luring  buyers, 

A  Jew  stands  mumbling  to  the  passer-by 

Of  jewelry  and  watches  and  old  clothes. 

A  limousine  gleams  quickly  —  with  a  cry 

A  legless  man  fastened  upon  a  board 

With  casters  'neath  it  by  a  sudden  shove 

Darts  out  of  danger.     And  upon  the  corner 

A  lassie  tells  a  man  that  God  is  love, 

Holding  a  tambourine  with  its  copper  hoard 

To  be  augmented  by  the  drunken  scorner. 

A  woman  with  no  eyeballs  in  her  sockets 

Plays  "Rock  of  Ages"  on  a  wheezy  organ. 

A  newsboy  with  cold  hands  thrust  in  his  pockets 

Cries,  "All  about  the  will  of  Pierpont  Morgan!" 

[35] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

The  roofline  of  the  street  now  sinks  and  dwindles. 

The  windows  are  begrimed  with  dust  and  beer. 

A  child  half  clothed,  with  legs  as  thin  as  spindles, 

Carries  a  basket  with  some  bits  of  coal. 

Between  lace  curtains  eyes  of  yellow  leer, 

The  cheeks  splotched  with  white  places  like  the  skin 

Inside  an  eggshell  —  destitute  of  soul. 

One  sees  a  brass  lamp  oozing  kerosene 

Upon  a  stand  whereon  her  elbows  lean ; 

Lighted,  it  soon  will  welcome  negroes  in. 

The  railroad  tracks  are  near.     We  almost  choke 
From    filth    whirled    from    the    street    and    stinging 

vapors. 

Great  engines  vomit  gas  and  heavy  smoke 
Upon  a  north  wind  driving  tattered  papers, 
Dry  dung  and  dust  and  refuse  down  the  street. 
A  circumambient  roar  as  of  a  wheel 
Whirring  far  off  —  a  monster's  heart  whose  beat 
Is  full  of  murmurs,  comes  as  we  retreat 
Towards  Twenty-second.     And  a  man  with  jaw 
Set  like  a  tiger's,  with  a  dirty  beard, 
Skulks  toward  the  loop,  with  heavy  wrists  red-raw 
Glowing  above  his  pockets  where  his  hands 
Pushed  tensely  round  his  hips  the  coat  tails  draw, 
And  show  what  seems  a  slender  piece  of  metal 
In  his  hip  pocket.     On  these  barren  strands 
He  waits  for  midnight  for  old  scores  to  settle 

[36] 


THE  LOOP 

Against  his  ancient  foe  society, 

Who  keeps  the  soup  house  and  who  builds  the  jails. 

Switchmen  and  firemen  with  their  dinner  pails 

Go  by  him  homeward,  and  he  wonders  if 

These  fellows  know  a  hundred  thousand  workers 

Walk  up  and  down  the  city's  highways,  stiff 

From  cold  and  hunger,  doomed  to  poverty, 

As  wretched  as  the  thieves  and  crooks  and  shirkers. 

He  scurries  to  the  lake  front,  loiters  past 

The  windows  of  wax  lights  with  scarlet  shades, 

Where  smiling  diners  back  of  ambuscades 

Of  silk  and  velvet  hear  not  winter's  blast 

Blowing  across  the  lake.     He  has  a  thought 

Of  Michigan,  where  once  at  picking  berries 

He  spent  a  summer  —  then  his  eye  is  caught 

At  Randolph  street  by  written  light  which  tarries, 

Then  like  a  film  runs  into  sentences. 

He  sees  it  all  as  from  a  black  abyss. 

Taxis  with  skid  chains  rattle,  limousines 

Draw  up  to  awnings ;   for  a  space  he  catches 

A  scent  of  musk  or  violets,  sees  the  patches 

On  powdered  cheeks  of  furred  and  jeweled  queens. 

The  color  round  his  cruel  mouth  grows  whiter, 

He  thrusts  his  coarse  hands  in  his  pockets  tighter : 

He  is  a  thief,  he  knows  he  is  a  thief, 

He  is  a  thief  found  out,  and,  as  he  knows, 

The  whole  loop  is  a  kingdom  held  in  fief 

By  men  who  work  with  laws  instead  of  blows 

[37] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

From  sling  shots,  so  he  curses  under  breath 

The  money  and  the  invisible  hand  that  owns 

From  year  to  year,  in  spite  of  change  and  death, 

The  wires  for  the  lights  and  telephones, 

The  railways  on  the  streets,  and  overhead 

The  railways,  and  beneath  the  winding  tunnel 

Which  crooks  stole  from  the  city  for  a  runnel 

To  drain  her  nickels ;   and  the  pipes  of  lead 

Which  carry  gas,  wrapped  round  us  like  a  snake, 

And    round    the    courts,    whose    grip    no    court    can 

break. 

He  curses  bitterly  all  those  who  rise, 
And  rule  by  just  the  spirit  which  he  plies 
Coarsely  against  the  world's  great  store  of  wealth ; 
Bankers  and  usurers  and  cliques  whose  stealth 
Works  witchcraft  through  the  market  and  the  press, 
And  hires  editors,  or  owns  the  stock 
Controlling  papers,  playing  with  finesse 
The  city's  thinking,  that  they  may  unlock 
Treasures  and  powers  like  burglars  in  the  dark. 
And  thinking  thus  and  cursing,  through  a  flurry 
Of  sudden  snow  he  hastens  on  to  Clark. 
In  a  cheap  room  there  is  an  eye  to  mark 
His  coming  and  be  glad.     His  footsteps  hurry. 
She  will  have  money,  earned  this  afternoon 
Through  men  who  took  her  from  a  near  saloon 
Wherein  she  sits  at  table  to  dragoon 
Roughnecks  or  simpletons  upon  a  lark. 

[38] 


THE  LOOP 

Within  a  little  hall  a  fierce-eyed  youth 
Rants  of  the  burdens  on  the  people's  backs  — 
He  would  cure  all  things  with  the  single  tax. 
A  clergyman  demands  more  gospel  truth, 
Speaking  to  Christians  at  a  weekly  dinner. 
A  parlor  Marxian,  for  a  beginner 
Would  take  the  railways.     And  amid  applause 
Where  lawyers  dine,  a  judge  says  all  will  be 
Well  if  we  hand  down  to  posterity 
Respect  for  courts  and  judges  and  the  laws. 
An  anarchist  would  fight.     Upon  the  whole, 
Another  thinks,  to  cultivate  one's  soul 
Is  most  important  —  let  the  passing  show 
Go  where  it  wills,  and  where  it  wills  to  go. 

Outside  the  stars  look  down.     Stars  are  content 
To  be  so  quiet  and  indifferent. 


39] 


WHEN  UNDER  THE   ICY  EAVES 

When  under  the  icy  eaves 

The  swallow  heralds  the  sun, 
And  the  dove  for  its  lost  mate  grieves 

And  the  young  lambs  play  and  run ; 
When  the  sea  is  a  plane  of  glass, 

And  the  blustering  winds  are  still, 
And  the  strength  of  the  thin  snows  pass 

In  mists  o'er  the  tawny  hill  — 
The  spirit  of  life  awakes 
In  the  fresh  flags  by  the  lakes. 

When  the  sick  man  seeks  the  air, 

And  the  graves  of  the  dead  grow  green, 
Where  the  children  play  unaware 

Of  the  faces  no  longer  seen  ; 
When  all  we  have  felt  or  can  feel, 

And  all  we  are  or  have  been, 
And  all  the  heart  can  hide  or  reveal, 

Knocks  gently,  and  enters  in  :  — 
The  spirit  of  life  awakes, 
In  the  fresh  flags  by  the  lakes. 


[40] 


IN  THE   CAR 

We  paused  to  say  good-by, 
As  we  thought  for  a  little  while, 
Alone  in  the  car,  in  the  corner 
Around  the  turn  of  the  aisle. 

A  quiver  came  in  your  voice, 
Your  eyes  were  sorrowful  too ; 
'Twas  over  —  I  strode  to  the  doorway, 
Then  turned  to  wave  an  adieu. 

But  you  had  not  come  from  the  corner. 
And  though  I  had  gone  so  far, 
I  retraced,  and  faced  you  coming 
Into  the  aisle  of  the  car. 

You  stopped  as  one  who  was  caught 
In  an  evil  mood  by  surprise.  — 
I  want  to  forget,  I  am  trying 
To  forget  the  look  in  your  eyes. 

Your  face  was  blank  and  cold, 
Like  Lot's  wife  turned  to  salt. 
I  suddenly  trapped  and  discovered 
Your  soul  in  a  hidden  fault. 

[41] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Your  eyes  were  tearless  and  wide, 
And  your  wide  eyes  looked  on  me 
Like  a  Maenad  musing  murder, 
Or  the  mask  of  Melpomene. 

And  there  in  a  flash  of  lightning 
I  learned  what  I  never  could  prove : 
That  your  heart  contained  no  sorrow, 
And  your  heart  contained  no  love. 

And  my  heart  is  light  and  heavy, 
And  this  is  the  reason  why : 
I  am  glad  we  parted  forever, 
And  sad  for  the  last  good-by. 


[42] 


SIMON   SURNAMED   PETER 

Time  that  has  lifted  you  over  them  all  — 

O'er  John  and  o'er  Paul ; 

Writ  you  in  capitals,  made  you  the  chief 

Word  on  the  leaf  — 

How  did  you,  Peter,  when  ne'er  on  His  breast 

You  leaned  and  were  blest  — 

And  none  except  Judas  and  you  broke  the  faith 

To  the  day  of  His  death,  — 

You,  Peter,  the  fisherman,  worthy  of  blame, 

Arise  to  this  fame  ? 

'Twas  you  in  the  garden  who  fell  into  sleep 

And  the  watch  failed  to  keep, 

When  Jesus  was  praying  and  pressed  with  the  weight 

Of  the  oncoming  fate. 

'Twas  you  in  the  court  of  the  palace  who  warmed 

Your  hands  as  you  stormed 

At  the  damsel,  denying  Him  thrice,  when  she  cried : 

"He  walked  at  his  side!" 

"You,  Peter,  a  wave,  a  star  among  clouds,  a  reed  in 

the  wind, 
A  guide  of  the  blind, 

[43] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Both  smiter  and  flyer,  but  human  alway,  I  protest, 
Beyond  all  the  rest. 

When  at  night  by  the  boat  on  the  sea  He  appeared 

Did  you  wait  till  he  neared  ? 

You  leaped  in  the  water,  not  dreading  the  worst 

In  your  joy  to  be  first 

To  greet  Him  and  tell  Him  of  all  that  had  passed 

Since  you  saw  Him  the  last. 

You  had  slept  while  He  watched,  but  fierce  were  you, 

fierce  and  awake 
When  they  sought  Him  to  take, 
And  cursing,  no  doubt,  as  you  smote  off,  as  one  of  the 

least, 

The  ear  of  the  priest. 
Then  Andrew  and  all  of  them  fled,  but  you  followed 

Him,  hoping  for  strength 
To  save  him  at  length 
Till  you  lied  to  the  damsel,  oh  penitent  Peter,  and 

crept, 
Into  hiding  and  wept. 

Oh  well !     But  he  asked  all  the  twelve,  "Who  am  I  ?" 

And  who  made  reply  ? 

As  you  leaped  in  the  sea,  so  you  spoke  as  you  smote 

with  the  sword ; 
"Thou  art  Christ,  even  Lord!" 
John  leaned  on  His  breast,  but  he  asked  you,  your 

strength  to  foresee, 

[44] 


SIMON  SURNAMED  PETER 

"Nay,  lovest  thou  me  ?" 

Thrice  over,  as  thrice  you  denied  Him,  and  chose  you 

to  lead 

His  sheep  and  to  feed ; 

And  gave  you,  He  said,  the  keys  of  the  den  and  the  fold 
To  have  and  to  hold. 

You  were  a  poor  jailer,  oh  Peter,  the  dreamer,  who  saw 
The  death  of  the  law 
In  the  dream  of  the  vessel  that  held  all  the  four-footed 

beasts, 

Unclean  for  the  priests  ; 
And  heard  in  the  vision  a  trumpet  that  all  men  are 

worth 

The  peace  of  the  earth 
And   rapture  of  heaven   hereafter,  —  oh   Peter,   what 

power 

Was  yours  in  that  hour : 

You  warder  and  jailer  and  sealer  of  fates  and  decrees, 
To  use  the  big  keys 
With  which  to  reveal  and  fling  wide  all  the  soul  and 

the  scheme 
Of  the  Galilee  dream, 
When  you  flashed  in  a  trice,  as  later  you  smote  with 

the  sword : 
"Thou  art  Christ,  even  Lord  !" 

We  men,  Simon  Peter,  we  men  also  give  you  the  crown 
O'er  Paul  and  o'er  John. 

[45] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

We  write  you  in  capitals,  make  you  the  chief 

Word  on  the  leaf. 

We  know  you  as  one  of  our  flesh,  and  'tis  well 

You  are  warder  of  hell, 

And    heaven's    gatekeeper    forever    to    bind    and    to 

loose  — 

Keep  the  keys  if  you  choose. 
Not  rock  of  you,  fire  of  you  make  you  sublime 
In  the  annals  of  time. 
You  were  called  by  Him,  Peter,  a  rock,  but  we  give 

you  the  name 
Of  Peter  the  Flame. 

For  you  struck  a  spark,  as  the  spark  from  the  shock 
Of  steel  upon  rock. 

The  rock  has  his  use  but  the  flame  gives  the  light 
In  the  way  in  the  night :  — 

Oh  Peter,  the  dreamer,  impetuous,  human,  divine, 
Gnarled  branch  of  the  vine ! 


[46] 


ALL  LIFE  IN  A  LIFE 

His  father  had  a  large  family 

Of  girls  and  boys  and  he  was  born  and  bred 

In  a  barn  or  kind  of  cattle  shed. 

But  he  was  a  hardy  youngster  and  grew  to  be 

A  boy  with  eyes  that  sparkled  like  a  rod 

Of  white  hot  iron  in  the  blacksmith  shop. 

His  face  was  ruddy  like  a  rising  moon, 

And  his  hair  was  black  as  sheep's  wool  that  is  black. 

And  he  had  rugged  arms  and  legs  and  a  strong  back. 

And  he  had  a  voice  half  flute  and  half  bassoon. 

And  from  his  toes  up  to  his  head's  top 

He  was  a  man,  simple  but  intricate. 

And  most  men  differ  who  try  to  delineate 

His  life  and  fate. 

He  never  seemed  ashamed 

Of  poverty  or  of  his  origin.     He  was  a  wayward  child, 

Nevertheless  though  wise  and  mild, 

And  thoughtful  but  when  angered  then  he  flamed 

As  fire  does  in  a  forge. 

When  he  was  ten  years  old  he  ran  away 

To  be  alone  and  watch  the  sea,  and  the  stars 

At  midnight  from  a  mountain  gorge. 

[47] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

When  he  returned  his  parents  scolded  him 

And  threatened  him  with  bolts  and  bars. 

Then  they  grew  soft  for  his  return  and  gay 

And  with  their  love  would  have  enfolded  him. 

But  even  at  ten  years  old  he  had  a  way 

Of  gazing  at  you  with  a  look  austere 

Which  gave  his  kinfolk  fear. 

He  had  no  childlike  love  for  father  or  mother, 

Sister  or  brother, 

They  were  the  same  to  him  as  any  other. 

He  was  a  little  cold,  a  little  queer. 

His  father  was  a  laborer  and  now 

They  made  the  boy  work  for  his  daily  bread. 

They  say  he  read 

A  book  or  two  during  these  years  of  work. 

But  if  there  was  a  secret  prone  to  lurk 

Between  the  pages  under  the  light  of  his  brow 

It  came  forth.     And  if  he  had  a  woman 

In  love  or  out  of  love,  or  a  companion  or  a  chum, 

History  is  dumb. 

So  far  as  we  know  he  dreamed  and  worked  with  hands 

And  learned  to  know  his  genius'  commands 

Or  what  is  called  one's  daemon. 

And  this  became  at  last  the  city's  call. 

He  had  now  reached  the  age  of  thirty  years, 

And  found  a  Dream  of  Life  and  a  solution 

[48] 


ALL  LIFE  IN  A  LIFE 

For  slavery  of  soul  and  even  all 

Miseries  that  flow  from  things  material. 

To  free  the  world  was  his  soul's  resolution. 

But  his  family  had  great  fears 

For  him,  knowing  the  evil 

Which  might  befall  him,  seeing  that  the  light 

Of  his  own  dream  had  blinded  his  mind's  eyes. 

They  could  not  tell  but  what  he  had  a  devil. 

But  still  in  their  tears  despite, 

And  warnings  he  departed  with  replies 

That  when  a  man's  genius  calls  him 

He  must  obey  no  matter  what  befalls  him. 

What  he  had  in  his  mind  was  growth 

Of  soul  by  watching, 

And  the  creation  of  eyes 

Over  your  mind's  eyes  to  supervise 

A  clear  activity  and  to  ward  off  sloth. 

What  he  had  in  his  mind  was  scotching 

And  killing  the  snake  of  Hatred  and  stripping  the  glove 

From  the  hand  of  Hypocrisy  and  quenching  the  fire 

Of  Falsehood  and  Unbrotherly  Desire.  — 

What  he  had  in  his  mind  was  simply  Love. 

And  it  was  strange  he  preached  the  sword  and  force 

To  establish  Love,  but  it  was  not  strange, 

Since  he  did  this,  his  life  took  on  a  change. 

And  what  he  taught  seems  muddled  at  its  source 

With  moralizing  and  with  moral  strife. 

[49] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

i 

(For  morals  are  merely  the  Truth  diluted 

And  sweetened  up  and  suited 

To  the  business  and  bread  of  Life. 

And  now  this  City  was  just  what  you'd  find 

A  city  anywhere, 

A  turmoil  and  a  Vanity  Fair, 

A  sort  of  heaven  and  a  sort  of  Tophet. 

There  were  so  many  leaders  of  his  kind 

The  city  didn't  care 

For  one  additional  prophet. 

He  said  some  extravagant  things 

And  planted  a  few  stings 

Under  the  rich  man's  hide. 

And  one  of  the  sensational  newspapers 

Gave  him  a  line  or  two  for  cutting  capers 

In  front  of  the  Palace  of  Justice  and  the  Church. 

But  all  of  the  first  grade  people  took  the  other  side 

Of  the  street  when  they  saw  him  coming 

With  a  rag  tag  crowd  singing  and  humming, 

And  curious  boys  and  men  up  in  a  perch 

Of  a  tree  or  window  taking  the  spectacle  in, 

And  the  Corybantic  din 

Of  a  Salvation  Army  as  it  were. 

And  whatever  he  dreamed  when  he  lived  in  a  little 

town 

The  intelligent  people  ignored  him,  and  this  is  the  stir 
And  the  only  stir  he  made  in  the  city. 

[50] 


ALL  LIFE  IN  A  LIFE 

But  there  was  a  certain  sinister 

Fellow  who  came  to  him  hearing  of  his  renown 

And  said  "  You  can  be  Mayor  of  this  city, 

We  need  a  man  like  you  for  Mayor." 

And  others  said  "  You'd  make  a  lawyer  or  a  politician, 

Look  how  the  people  follow  you ; 

Why  don't  you  hire  out  as  a  special  writer, 

You  could  become  a  business  man,  a  rhetorician, 

You  could  become  a  player, 

You  can  grow  rich.     There's  nothing  for  a  fighter, 

Fighting  as  you  are,  but  to  end  in  ruin." 

But  he  turned  from  them  on  his  way  pursuing 

The  dream  he  had  in  view. 

He  had  a  rich  man  or  two 

Who  took  up  with  him  against  the  powerful  frown 

Which  looked  him  down. 

For  you'll  always  find  a  rich  man  or  two 

To  take  up  with  anything. 

There  are  those  who  can't  get  into  society  or  bring 

Their  riches  to  a  social  recognition ; 

Or  ill-formed  souls  who  lack  the  real  patrician 

Spirit  for  life. 

But  as  for  him  he  didn't  care,  he  passed 

Where  the  richness  of  living  was  rife. 

And  like  wise  Goethe  talking  to  the  last 

With  cabmen  rather  than  with  lords 

He  sat  about  the  markets  and  the  fountains, 

[51] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

He  walked  about  the  country  and  the  mountains, 

Took  trips  upon  the  lakes  and  waded  fords 

Barefooted,  laughing  as  a  young  animal 

Disports  itself  amid  the  festival 

Of  warm  winds,  sunshine,  summer's  carnival  — 

With  laborers,  carpenters,  seamen 

And  some  loose  women. 

And  certain  notable  sinners 

Gave  him  dinners. 

And  he  went  to  weddings  and  to  places  where  youth 

slakes 

Its  thirst  for  happiness,  and  they  served  him  cakes 
And  wine  wherever  he  went. 
And  he  ate  and  drank  and  spent 
His  time  in  feasting  and  in  telling  stories, 
And  singing  poems  of  lilies  and  of  trees, 
With  crowds  of  people  crowded  around  his  knees 
That  searched  with  lightning  secrets  hidden 
Of  life  and  of  life's  glories, 
Of  death  and  of  the  soul's  way  after  death. 

Time  makes  amends  usually  for  scandal's  breath, 

Which  touched  him  to  his  earthly  ruination. 

But  this  city  had  a  Civic  Federation, 

And  a  certain  social  order  which  intrigues 

Through  churches,  courts,  with  an  endless  ramification 

Of  money  and  morals  to  save  itself. 

And  this  city  had  a  Bar  Association, 

[52] 


ALL  LIFE  IN  A  LIFE 

Also  its  Public  Efficiency  Leagues 

For  laying  honest  men  upon  the  shelf 

While  making  private  pelf 

Secure  and  free  to  increase. 

And  this  city  had  illustrious  Pharisees 

And  this  city  had  a  legion 

Of  men  who  make  a  business  of  religion, 

With  eyes  one  inch  apart, 

Dark  and  narrow  of  heart, 

Who  give  themselves  and  give  the  city  no  peace, 

And  who  are  everywhere  the  best  police 

For  Life  as  business. 

And  when  they  saw  this  youth 

Was  telling  the  truth, 

And  that  his  followers  were  multiplying, 

And  were  going  about  rejoicing  and  defying 

The  social  order  and  were  stirring  up 

The  dregs  of  discontent  in  the  cup 

With  the  hand  of  their  own  happiness, 

They  saw  dynamic  mysteries 

In  the  poems  of  lilies  and  trees, 

Therefore  they  held  him  for  a  felony. 

If  you  will  take  a  kernel  of  wheat 

And  first  make  free 

The  outer  flake  and  then  pare  of!  the  meat 

Of  edible  starch  you'll  find  at  the  kernel's  core 

The  life  germ.     And  this  young  man's  words  were  dim 

[53] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

With  blasphemy,  sedition  at  the  rim, 

Which  fired  the  heads  of  dreamers  like  new  wine. 

But  this  was  just  the  outward  force  of  him. 

For  this  young  man's  philosophy  was  more 

Than  such  external  ferment,  being  divine 

With  secrets  so  profound  no  plummet  line 

Can  altogether  sound  it.     It  means  growth 

Of  soul  by  watching, 

And  the  creation  of  eyes 

Over  your  mind's  eyes  to  supervise 

A  clear  activity  and  to  ward  off  sloth. 

What  he  had  in  mind  was  scotching 

And  killing  the  snake  of  Hatred  and  stripping  the  glove 

From  the  hand  of  Hypocrisy  and  quenching  the  fire 

Of  falsehood  and  unbrotherly  Desire. 

What  he  had  in  mind  was  simply  Love. 

But  he  was  prosecuted 

As  a  rebel  and  as  a  rebel  executed 

Right  in  a  public  place  where  all  could  see. 

And  his  mother  watched  him  hang  for  the  felony. 

He  hated  to  die  being  but  thirty-three, 

And  fearing  that  his  poems  might  be  lost. 

And  certain  members  of  the  Bar  Association, 

And  of  the  Civic  Federation, 

And  of  the  League  of  Public  Efficiency, 

And  a  legion 

Of  men  devoted  to  religion, 

[54] 


ALL  LIFE  IN  A  LIFE 

With  policemen,  soldiers,  roughs, 
Loose  women,  thieves  and  toughs, 
Came  out  to  see  him  die, 
And  hooted  at  him  giving  up  the  ghost 
In  great  despair  and  with  a  fearful  cry ! 

And  after  him  there  was  a  man  named  Paul 
Who  almost  spoiled  it  all. 

And  protozoan  things  like  hypocrites, 

And  parasitic  things  who  make  a  food 

Of  the  mysteries  of  God  for  earthly  power 

Must  wonder  how  before  this  young  man's  hour 

They  lived  without  his  blood, 

Shed  on  that  day,  and  which 

In  red  cells  is  so  rich. 


tssl 


WHAT  YOU  WILL 

April  rain,  delicious  weeping, 

Washes  white  bones  from  the  grave, 

Long  enough  have  they  been  sleeping. 
They  are  cleansed,  and  now  they  crave 

Once  more  on  the  earth  to  gather 

Pleasure  from  the  springtime  weather. 

The  pine  trees  and  the  long  dark  grass 

Feed  on  what  is  placed  below. 
Think  you  not  that  there  doth  pass 

In  them  something  we  did  know  ? 
This  spell  —  well,  friends,  I  greet  ye  once  again 
With  joy  —  but  with  a  most  unuttered  pain. 


56] 


THE   CITY 

The  Sun  hung  like  a  red  balloon 

As  if  he  would  not  rise ; 

For  listless  Helios  drowsed  and  yawned. 

He  cared  not  whether  the  morning  dawned, 

The  brother  of  Eos  and  the  Moon 

Stretched  him  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

He  would  have  dreamed  the  dream  again 
That  found  him  under  sea : 
He  saw  Zeus  sit  by  Hera's  side, 
He  saw  Haephestos  with  his  bride ; 
He  traced  from  Enna's  flowery  plain 
The  child  Persephone. 

There  was  a  time  when  heaven's  vault 
Cracked  like  a  temple's  roof. 
A  new  hierarchy  burst  its  shell, 
And  as  the  sapphire  ceiling  fell, 
From  stern  Jehovah's  mad  assault, 
Vast  spaces  stretched  aloof: 

Great  blue  black  depths  of  frozen  air 

Engulfed  the  soul  of  Zeus. 

And  then  Jehovah  reigned  instead. 

[57] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

For  Judah  was  living  and  Greece  was  dead. 
And  Hope  was  born  to  nurse  Despair, 
And  the  Devil  was  let  loose. 


Far  off  in  the  waste  empyrean 

The  world  was  a  golden  mote. 

And  the  Sun  hung  like  a  red  balloon, 

Or  a  bomb  afire  o'er  a  barracoon. 

And  the  sea  was  drab,  and  the  sea  was  green 

Like  a  many  colored  coat. 

The  sea  was  pink  like  cyclamen, 

And  red  as  a  blushing  rose. 

It  shook  anon  like  the  sensitive  plant, 

Under  the  golden  light  aslant. 

The  little  waves  patted  the  shore  again 

Where  the  restless  river  flows. 

And  thus  it  has  been  for  ages  gone  — 

For  a  hundred  thousand  years ; 

Ere  Buddha  lived  or  Jesus  came, 

Or  ever  the  city  had  place  or  name, 

The  sea  thrilled  through  at  the  kiss  of  dawn 

Like  a  soul  of  smiles  and  tears. 

When  the  city's  seat  was  a  waste  of  sand, 

And  the  hydra  lived  alone, 

The  sound  of  the  sea  was  here  to  be  heard, 

[58] 


THE  CITY 

And  the  moon  rose  up  like  a  great  white  bird, 
Sailing  aloft  from  the  yellow  strand 
To  her  silent  midnight  throne. 

Now  Helios  eyes  the  universe, 

And  he  knows  the  world  is  small. 

Of  old  he  walked  through  pagan  Tyre, 

Babylon,  Sodom  destroyed  by  fire, 

And  sought  to  unriddle  the  primal  curse 

That  holds  the  race  in  thrall. 

So  he  stepped  from  the  Sun  in  robes  of  flame 
As  the  city  woke  from  sleep. 
He  walked  the  markets,  walked  the  squares, 
He  walked  the  places  of  sweets  and  snares, 
Where  men  buy  honor  and  barter  shame, 
And  the  weak  are  killed  as  sheep. 

He  saw  the  city  is  one  great  mart 
Where  life  is  bought  and  sold. 
Men  rise  to  get  them  meat  and  bread 
To  barter  for  drugs  or  coffin  the  dead. 
And  dawn  is  but  a  plucked-up  heart 
For  the  dreary  game  of  gold. 

"Ho  !  ho  !"  said  Helios,  "father  Zeus 

Would  never  botch  it  so. 

If  he  had  stolen  Joseph's  bride, 

[59] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  let  his  son  be  crucified 

The  son's  blood  had  been  put  to  use 

To  ease  the  people's  woe." 

"He  of  the  pest  and  the  burning  bush, 
Of  locusts,  lice,  and  frogs, 
Who  made  me  stand,  veiling  my  light, 
While  Joshua  slaughtered  the  Amorite, 
Who  blacked  the  skin  of  the  sons  of  Cush, 
And  builded  the  synagogues." 

"  And  Jehovah  the  great  is  omnipotent, 
While  Zeus  was  bound  by  Fate. 
But  Athens  fell  when  Peter  took  Rome, 
And  Chicago  is  made  His  hecatomb. 
And  since  from  the  hour  His  son  was  sent 
The  hypocrite  holds  the  state." 

Helios  traversed  the  city  streets 

And  this  is  what  he  saw : 

Some  sold  their  honor,  some  their  skill, 

The  soldier  hired  himself  to  kill, 

The  judges  bartered  the  judgment  seats 

And  trafficked  in  the  law. 

The  starving  artist  sold  his  youth, 

The  writer  sold  his  pen ; 

The  lawyer  sharpened  up  his  wits 

[60] 


THE  CITY 

Like  a  burglar  filing  auger  bits, 
And  Jesus'  vicar  sold  the  truth 
To  the  famished  sons  of  men. 

In  every  heart  flamed  cruelty 

Like  a  little  emerald  snake. 

And  each  one  knew  if  he  should  stand 

In  another's  way  the  dagger-hand 

Would  make  the  stronger  the  feofee 

Of  the  coveted  wapentake. 

There's  not  a  thing  men  will  not  do 
For  honor,  gold,  or  power. 
We  smile  and  call  the  city  fair, 
We  call  life  lovely  and  debonair, 
But  Proserpina  never  grew 
So  deadly  a  passion  flower. 

Go  live  for  an  hour  in  a  tropic  land 

Hid  near  a  sinking  pool : 

The  lion  and  tiger  come  to  drink, 

The  boa  crawls  to  the  water's  brink, 

The  elephant  bull  kneels  down  in  the  sand 

And  drinks  till  his  throat  is  cool. 

Jehovah  will  keep  you  awhile  unseen 
As  you  lie  behind  the  rocks. 
But  go,  if  you  dare,  to  slake  your  thirst, 
[61] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Though  Jesus  died  for  our  life  accursed 
Your  bones  by  the  tiger  will  be  licked  clean 
As  he  licks  the  bones  of  an  ox. 

And  the  sky  may  be  blue  as  fleur  de  lis, 
And  the  earth  be  tulip  red ; 
And  God  in  heaven,  and  life  all  good 
While  you  lie  hid  in  the  underwood : 
And  the  city  may  leave  you  sorrow  free 
If  you  ask  it  not  for  bread. 

One  day  Achilles  lost  a  horse 

While  the  pest  at  Troy  was  rife, 

And  a  million  maggots  fought  and  ate 

Like  soldiers  storming  a  city's  gate, 

And  Thersites  said,  as  he  looked  at  the  corse, 

"Achilles,  that  is  life." 


Day  fades  and  from  a  million  cells 
The  office  people  pour. 
Like  bees  that  crawl  on  the  honeycomb 
The  workers  scurry  to  what  is  home, 
And  trains  and  traffic  and  clanging  bells 
Make  the  canon  highways  roar. 

Helios  walked  the  city's  ways 
Till  the  lights  began  to  shine. 
Then  the  janitor  women  start  to  scrub 

[62] 


THE  CITY 

And  the  Pharisees  up  and  enter  the  club, 
And  the  harlot  wakes,  and  the  music  plays 
And  the  glasses  glow  with  wine. 

Now  we're  good  fellows  one  and  all, 
And  the  buffet  storms  with  talk. 
"The  market's  closed  and  trade's  at  end 
We  had  our  battle,  now  I'm  your  friend." 
And  thanks  to  the  spirit  of  alcohol 
Men  go  for  a  ride  or  walk. 

Oh  but  traffic  is  not  all  done 

Nor  everything  yet  sold. 

There's  woman  to  win,  and  plots  to  weave, 

There's  a  heart  to  hurt,  or  one  to  deceive, 

And  bargains  to  bind  ere  rise  of  Sun 

To  garner  the  morrow's  gold. 

The  market  at  night  is  as  full  of  fraud 
As  the  market  kept  by  day. 
The  courtesan  buys  a  soul  with  a  look, 
A  dinner  tempers  the  truth  in  a  book, 
And  love  is  sold  till  love  is  a  bawd, 
And  falsehood  froths  in  the  play. 

And  men  and  women  sell  their  smiles 

For  friendship's  lifeless  dregs. 

For  fear  of  the  morrow  we  bend  and  bow 

[63] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

To  moneybags  with  the  slanting  brow. 
For  the  heart  that  knows  life's  little  wiles 
Seldom  or  never  begs. 

"Poor  men,"  sighed  Helios,  "how  they  long 

For  the  ultimate  fire  of  love. 

They  yearn,  through  life,  like  the  peacock  moth, 

And  die  worn  out  in  search  of  the  troth. 

For  love  in  the  soul  is  the  siren  song 

That  wrecks  the  peace  thereof." 

i  ****** 

Helios  turned  from  the  world  and  fled 

As  the  convent  bell  tolled  six. 

For  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  aged  crone 

Who  knelt  beside  a  coffin  alone ; 

She  had  sold  her  cloak  to  shrive  the  dead 

And  buy  a  crucifix ! 


THE   IDIOT 

Two  children  in  a  garden 

Shouting  for  joy 

\\  ere  playing  dolls  and  houses, 

A  girl  and  boy. 

I  smiled  at  a  neighbor  window, 

And  watched  them  play 

Under  a  budding  oak  tree 

On  a  wintry  day. 

And  then  a  board  half  broken 

In  the  high  fence 

Fell  over  and  there  entered, 

I  know  not  whence, 

A  jailbird  face  of  yellow 

\\  ith  a  vacant  sulk, 

His  body  was  a  sickly 

Thing  of  bulk. 

His  open  mouth  was  slavering, 
And  a  green  light 
Turned  disc-like  in  his  eyeballs, 
Like  a  dog's  at  night. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

His  teeth  were  like  a  giant's, 

And  far  apart ; 

I  saw  him  reel  on  the  children 

With  a  stopping  heart. 

He  trampled  their  dolls  and  ruined 

The  house  they  made  ; 

He  struck  to  earth  the  children 

With  a  dirty  spade. 

As  a  tiger  growls  with  an  antelope 

After  the  hunt, 

Over  the  little  faces 

I  heard  him  grunt. 

I  stood  at  the  window  frozen, 
And  short  of  breath, 
And  then  I  saw  the  idiot 
Was  Master  Death ! 

A  bird  in  the  lilac  bushes 

Began  to  sing. 

The  garden  colored  before  me 

To  the  kiss  of  spring. 

And  the  yellow  face  in  a  moment 

Was  a  mystic  white ; 

The  matted  hair  was  softened 

To  starry  light. 

The  ragged  coat  flowed  downward 

Into  a  robe ; 

[66] 


THE  IDIOT 

He  carried  a  sword  and  a  balance 

And  stood  on  a  globe. 

I  watched  him  from  the  window 

Under  a  spell ; 

The  idiot  was  the  angel 

Azrael  1 


[67] 


HELEN  OF  TROY 

On  an  ancient  vase  representing  in  bas-relief  the  flight 
of  Helen. 

This  is  the  vase  of  Love 
Whose  feet  would  ever  rove 

O'er  land  and  sea ; 
Whose  hopes  forever  seek 
Bright  eyes,  the  vermeiled  cheek, 

And  ways  made  free. 

Do  we  not  understand 

Why  thou  didst  leave  thy  land, 

Thy  spouse,  thy  hearth  ? 
Helen  of  Troy,  Greek  art 
Hath  made  our  heart  thy  heart, 

Thy  mirth  our  mirth. 

For  Paris  did  appear,  — 
Curled  hair  and  rosy  ear 

And  tapering  hands. 
He  spoke  —  the  blood  ran  fast, 
He  touched,  and  killed  the  past, 

And  clove  its  bands. 
[68] 


HELEN  OF  TROY 

And  this,  I  deem,  is  why 
The  restless  ages  sigh, 

Helen,  for  thee. 
Whate'er  we  do  or  dream, 
Whate'er  we  say  or  seem, 

We  would  be  free. 

We  would  forsake  old  love, 
And  all  the  pain  thereof, 

And  all  the  care ; 
We  would  find  out  new  seas, 
And  lands  more  strange  than  these, 

And  flowers  more  fair. 

We  would  behold  fresh  skies 
Where  summer  never  dies 

And  amaranths  spring; 
Lands  where  the  halcyon  hours 
Nest  over  scented  bowers 

On  folded  wing. 

We  would  be  crowned  with  bays, 
And  spend  the  long  bright  days 

On  sea  or  shore ; 
Or  sit  by  haunted  woods, 
And  watch  the  deep  sea's  moods, 

And  hear  its  roar. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Beneath  that  ancient  sky 
Who  is  not  fain  to  fly 

As  men  have  fled  ? 
Ah  !  we  would  know  relief 
From  marts  of  wine  and  beef, 

And  oil  and  bread. 

Helen  of  Troy,  Greek  art 
Hath  made  our  heart  thy  heart, 

Thy  love  our  love. 
For  poesy,  like  thee, 
Must  fly  and  wander  free 

As  the  wild  dove. 


O  GLORIOUS   FRANCE 

You  have  become  a  forge  of  snow  white  fire, 

A  crucible  of  molten  steel,  O  France  ! 

Your  sons  are  stars  who  cluster  to  a  dawn 

And  fade  in  light  for  you,  O  glorious  France  ! 

They  pass  through  meteor  changes  with  a  song 

Which  to  all  islands  and  all  continents 

Says  life  is  neither  comfort,  wealth,  nor  fame, 

Nor  quiet  hearthstones,  friendship,  wife  nor  child 

Nor  love,  nor  youth's  delight,  nor  manhood's  power, 

Nor  many  days  spent  in  a  chosen  work, 

Nor  honored  merit,  nor  the  patterned  theme 

Of  daily  labor,  nor  the  crowns  nor  wreaths 

Or  seventy  years. 

These  are  not  all  of  life, 

O  France,  whose  sons  amid  the  rolling  thunder 
Of  cannon  stand  in  trenches  where  the  dead 
Clog  the  ensanguined  ice.     But  life  to  these 
Prophetic  and  enraptured  souls  is  vision, 
And,the  keen  ecstasy  of  fated  strife, 
And  divination  of  the  loss  as  gain, 
And  reading  mysteries  with  brightened  eyes 
In  fiery  shock  and  dazzling  pain  before 

[71] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

The  orient  splendor  of  the  face  of  Death, 

As  a  great  light  beside  a  shadowy  sea ; 

And  in  a  high  will's  strenuous  exercise, 

Where  the  warmed  spirit  finds  its  fullest  strength 

And  is  no  more  afraid.     And  in  the  stroke 

Of  azure  lightning  when  the  hidden  essence 

And  shifting  meaning  of  man's  spiritual  worth 

And  mystical  significance  in  time 

Are  instantly  distilled  to  one  clear  drop 

Which  mirrors  earth  and  heaven. 

This  is  life 

Flaming  to  heaven  in  a  minute's  span 
When   the   breath   of    battle    blows    the    smoldering 

spark. 

And  across  these  seas 

We  who  cry  Peace  and  treasure  life  and  cling 
To  cities,  happiness,  or  daily  toil 
For  daily  bread,  or  trail  the  long  routine 
Of  seventy  years,  taste  not  the  terrible  wine 
Whereof  you  drink,  who  drain  and  toss  the  cup 
Empty  and  ringing  by  the  finished  feast ; 
Or  have  it  shaken  from  your  hand  by  sight 
Of  God  against  the  olive  woods. 

As  Joan  of  Arc  amid  the  apple  trees 

With  sacred  joy  first  heard  the  voices,  then 

Obeying  plunged  at  Orleans  in  a  field 

Of  spears  and  lived  her  dream  and  died  in  fire, 

[72] 


O  GLORIOUS  FRANCE 

Thou,  France,  hast  heard  the  voices  and  hast  lived 
The  dream  and  known  the  meaning  of  the  dream, 
And  read  its  riddle :   How  the  soul  of  man 
May  to  one  greatest  purpose  make  itself 
A  lens  of  clearness,  how  it  loves  the  cup 
Of  deepest  truth,  and  how  its  bitterest  gall 
Turns  sweet  to  soul's  surrender. 

And  you  say : 

Take  days  for  repetition,  stretch  your  hands 
For  mocked  renewal  of  familiar  things : 
The  beaten  path,  the  chair  beside  the  window, 
The  crowded  street,  the  task,  the  accustomed  sleep, 
And  waking  to  the  task,  or  many  springs 
Of  lifted  cloud,  blue  water,  flowering  fields  — 
The  prison  house  grows  close  no  less,  the  feast 
A  place  of  memory  sick  for  senses  dulled 
Down  to  the  dusty  end  where  pitiful  Time 
Grown  weary  cries  Enough  ! 


[73] 


FOR  A  DANCE 

There  is  in  the  dance 

The  joy  of  children  on  a  May  day  lawn. 
The  fragments  of  old  dreams  and  dead  romance 

Come  to  us  from  the  dancers  who  are  gone. 

What  strains  of  ancient  blood 

Move  quicker  to  the  music's  passionate  beat  ? 
I  see  the  gulls  fly  over  a  shadowy  flood 

And  Munster  fields  of  barley  and  of  wheat. 

And  I  see  sunny  France, 

And  the  vine's  tendrils  quivering  to  the  light, 
And  faces,  faces,  yearning  for  the  dance 

With  wistful  eyes  that  look  on  our  delight. 

They  live  through  us  again 

And  we  through  them,  who  wish  for  lips  and  eyes 
Wherewith  to  feel,  not  fancy,  the  old  pain 

Passed  with  reluctance  through  the  centuries 

To  us,  who  in  the  maze 

Of  dancing  and  hushed  music  woven  afresh 
Amid  the  shifting  mirrors  of  hours  and  days 

Know  not  our  spirit,  neither  know  our  flesh ; 

[74] 


FOR  A  DANCE 

Nor  what  ourselves  have  been, 

Through  the  long  way  that  brought  us  to  the  dance : 
I  see  a  little  green  by  Camolin 

And  odorous  orchards  blooming  in  Provence. 

Two  listen  to  the  roar 

Of  waves  moon-smitten,  where  no  steps  intrude. 
Who  knows  what  lips  were  kissed  at  Laracor  ? 

Or  who  it  was  that  walked  through  Burnham  wood  ? 


[75] 


WHEN   LIFE   IS   REAL 

We  rode,  we  rode  against  the  wind. 
The  countless  lights  along  the  town 
Made  the  town  blacker  for  their  fire, 
And  you  were  always  looking  down. 

To  'scape  the  blustering  breath  of  March, 
Or  was  it  for  your  mind's  disguise  ? 
Still  I  could  shut  my  eyes  and  see 
The  turquoise  color  of  your  eyes. 

Surely  your  ermine  furs  were  warm, 
And  warm  your  flowing  cloak  of  red ; 
Was  it  the  wild  wind  kept  you  thus 
Pensive  and  with  averted  head  ? 

I  scarcely  spoke,  my  words  were  swept 
Like  winged  things  in  the  wind's  despite. 
We  rode,  and  with  what  shadow  speed 
Across  the  darkness  of  the  night ! 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look. 
What  was  the  charm  and  what  the  spell 
That  made  one  hour  of  life  become 
A  memory  ever  memorable  ? 

*  *  *  *  * 

[76] 


WHEN  LIFE  IS   REAL 

All  craft,  all  labor,  all  desire, 
All  toil  of  age,  all  hope  of  youth 
Are  shadows  from  the  fount  of  fire 
And  mummers  of  the  truth. 

How  bloodless  books,  how  pulseless  art, 
Vain  kingly  and  imperial  zeal, 
Vain  all  memorials  of  the  heart ! 
When  Life  itself  is  real ! 

We  traced  the  golden  clouds  of  spring, 
We  roved  the  beach,  we  walked  the  land. 
What  was  the  world  ?     A  Phantom  thing 
That  vanished  in  your  hand. 

You  were  as  quiet  as  the  sky. 
Your  eyes  were  liquid  as  the  sea. 
And  in  that  hour  that  passed  us  by 
We  lived  eternally. 


[77] 


THE  QUESTION 

I 

The  sea  moans  and  the  stars  are  bright, 
The  leaves  lisp  'neath  a  rolling  moon. 
I  shut  my  eyes  against  the  night 
And  make  believe  the  time  is  June  — 
The  June  that  left  us  over-soon. 

This  is  the  path  and  this  the  place 
We  sat  and  watched  the  moving  sea, 
And  I  the  moonlight  on  your  face. 
We  were  not  happy  —  woe  is  me, 
Happiness  is  but  memory ! 

It  seemeth,  now  that  you  are  gone, 
My  heart  a  measured  pain  doth  keep :  — 
Are  you  now,  as  I  am,  alone  ? 
Do  you  make  merry,  do  you  weep  ? 
In  whose  arms  are  you  now  asleep  ? 


[78] 


THE  ANSWER 

II 

I  made  my  bed  beneath  the  pines 
Where  the  sea  washed  the  sandy  bars ; 
I  heard  the  music  of  the  winds, 
And  blest  the  aureate  face  of  Mars. 
All  night  a  lilac  splendor  throve 
Above  the  heaven's  shadowy  verge ; 
And  in  my  heart  the  voice  of  love 
Kept  music  with  the  dreaming  surge. 

A  little  maid  was  at  my  side  — 
She  slept  —  I  scarcely  slept  at  all; 
Until  toward  the  morning-tide 
A  dream  possessed  me  with  its  thrall. 
She  sweetly  breathed  ;   around  my  breast 
I  felt  her  warmth  like  drowsy  bliss, 
Then  came  the  vision  of  unrest  — 
I  saw  your  face  and  felt  your  kiss. 

I  woke  and  knew  with  what  dismay 

She  read  my  secret  and  surprise; 

She  only  said,  "Again  'tis  day ! 

How  red  your  cheeks,  how  bright  your  eyes !" 

[79] 


THE  SIGN 

There's  not  a  soul  on  the  square, 
And  the  snow  blows  up  like  a  sail, 
Or  dizzily  drifts  like  a  drunken  man 
Falling,  before  the  gale. 

And  when  the  wind  eddies  it  rifts 

The  snow  that  lies  in  drifts ; 

And  it  skims  along  the  walk  and  sifts 

In  stairways,  doorways  all  about 

The  steps  of  the  church  in  an  angry  rout. 

And  one  would  think  that  a  hungry  hound 

Was  out  in  the  cold  for  the  sound. 

But  I  do  not  seem  to  mind 
The  snow  that  makes  one  blind, 
Nor  the  crying  voice  of  the  wind  — 
I  hate  to  hear  the  creak  of  the  sign 
Of  Harmon  Whitney,  attorney  at  law : 
With  its  rhythmic  monotone  of  awe. 
And  neither  a  moan  nor  yet  a  whine, 
Nor  a  cry  of  pain  —  one  can't  define 
The  sound  of  a  creaking  sign. 

[so] 


THE  SIGN 

Especially  if  the  sky  be  bleak, 
And  no  one  stirs  however  you  seek, 
And  every  time  you  hear  it  creak 
You  wonder  why  they  leave  it  stay 
When  a  man  is  buried  and  hidden  away 
Many  a  day ! 


[81 


WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

He  sits  before  you  silent  as  Buddha, 

And  then  you  say 

This  man  is  Rabelais. 

And  while  you  wonder  what  his  stock  is, 

English  or  Irish,  you  behold  his  eyes 

As  big  and  brown  as  those  desirable  crockies 

With  which  as  boys  we  used  to  play. 

And  then  you  see  the  spherical  light  that  lies 

Just  under  the  iris  coloring, 

Before  which  everything, 

Becomes  as  plain  as  day. 

If  you  have  noticed  the  rolling  jowls 

And  the  face  that  speaks  its  chief 

Delight  in  beer  and  roast  beef 

Before  you  have  seen  his  eyes,  you  see 

A  man  of  fleshly  jollity, 

Like  the  friars  of  old  in  gowns  and  cowls 

To  make  a  show  of  scowls. 

And   when   he   speaks   from   an   orotund   depth   that 

growls 

In  a  humorous  way  like  Fielding  or  Smollett 
That  turns  in  a  trice  to  Robert  La  Follette 

[82! 


WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

Or  retraces  to  Thales  of  Crete, 

And  touches  upon  Descartes  coming  back 

Through  the  intellectual  Zodiac 

That's  something  of  a  feat. 

And  you  see  that  the  eyes  are  really  the  man 

For  the  thought  of  him  proliferates 

This  way  over  to  Hindostan, 

And  that  way  descanting  on  Yeats. 

With  a  word  on  Plato's  symposium, 

And  a  little  glimpse  of  Theocritus, 

Or  something  of  Bruno's  martyrdom, 

Or  what  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  meant 

By  a  certain  line  obscure  to  us. 

And  then  he'll  take  up  Horace's  odes 

Or  the  Roman  civilization ; 

Or  a  few  of  the  Iliad's  episodes, 

Or  the  Greek  deterioration. 

Or  skip  to  a  word  on  the  plasmic  jelly, 

Which  Benjamin  Moore  and  others  think 

Is  the  origin  of  life.     Then  Shelley 

Comes  in  a  for  a  look  of  understanding. 

Or  he'll  tell  you  about  the  orientation 

Of  the  ancient  dream  of  Zion. 

Or  what's  the  matter  with  Bryan. 

And  while  the  porter  is  bringing  a  drink 

Something  into  his  fancy  skips 

And  he  talks  about  the  Apocalypse, 

Or  a  painter  or  writer  now  unknown 

[83] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

In  France  or  Germany  who  will  soon 

Have  fame  of  him  through  the  whole  earth  blown. 

It's  not  so  hard  a  thing  to  be  wise 

In  the  lore  of  books. 

It's  a  different  thing  to  be  all  eyes,    • 

Like  a  lighthouse  which  revolves  and  looks 

Over  the  land  and  out  to  sea : 

And  a  lighthouse  is  what  he  seems  to  me ! 

Sitting  like  Buddha  spiritually  cool, 

Young  as  the  light  of  the  sun  is  young, 

And  taking  the  even  with  the  odd 

As  a  matter  of  course,  and  the  path  he's  trod 

As  a  path  that  was  good  enough. 

With  a  sort  of  transcendental  sense 

Whose  hatred  is  less  than  indifference, 

And  a  gift  of  wisdom  in  love. 

And  who  can  say  as  he  classifies 

Men  and  ages  with  his  eyes 

With  cool  detachment :   this  is  dung, 

And  that  poor  fellow  is  just  a  fool. 

And  say  what  you  will  death  is  a  rod. 

But  I  see  a  light  that  shines  and  shines 

And  I  rather  think  it's  God. 


[84] 


A   STUDY 

If  your  thoughts  were  as  clear  as  your  eyes, 
And  the  whole  of  your  heart  were  true, 
You  were  fitter  by  far  for  winning  — 
But  then  that  would  not  be  you. 

If  your  pulse  beat  time  to  love 
As  fast  as  you  think  and  plan, 
You  could  kindle  a  lasting  passion 
In  the  breast  of  the  strongest  man. 

If  you  felt  as  much  as  you  thought, 
And  dreamed  what  you  seem  to  dream, 
A  world  of  elysian  beauty 
Your  ruined  heart  would  redeem. 

If  you  thought  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Or  the  blood  in  your  veins  flowed  free, 
If  you  gave  your  kisses  but  gladly, 
We  two  could  better  agree. 

If  you  were  strong  where  I  counted, 
And  weak  where  yourself  were  at  stake, 
You  would  have  my  strength  for  your  giving, 
You  would  gain  and  not  lose  for  my  sake. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

If  your  heart  overruled  your  head, 
Or  your  head  were  lord  of  your  heart, 
Or  the  two  were  lovingly  balanced, 
I  think  we  never  should  part. 

If  you  came  to  me  spite  of  yourself, 
And  staid  not  away  through  design, 
These  days  of  loving  and  living 
Were  sweet  as  Olympian  wine. 

If  you  could  weep  with  another, 
And  tears  for  yourself  controlled, 
You  could  waken  and  hold  to  a  pity 
You  waken,  but  do  not  hold. 

If  your  lips  were  as  fain  to  speak 
As  your  face  is  fashioned  to  hide  — 
You  would  know  that  to  lay  up  treasure 
A  woman's  heart  must  confide. 

If  your  bosom  were  something  richer, 
Or  your  hands  more  fragile  and  thin, 
You  would  call  what  the  world  calls  evil, 
Or  sin  and  be  glad  of  the  sin. 

If  your  soul  were  aflame  with  love, 
Or  your  head  were  devoted  to  truth, 
You  never  would  toss  on  your  pillow 
Bewildered  'twixt  rapture  and  ruth. 
[86] 


A  STUDY 

If  you  were  the  you  of  my  dreams, 
And  the  you  of  my  dreams  were  mine, 
These  days,  half  sweet  and  half  bitter, 
Would  taste  like  Olympian  wine. 

Oh,  subtle  and  mystic  Egyptians ! 
Who  chiseled  the  Sphinx  in  the  East, 
With  head  and  the  breasts  of  a  woman, 
And  body  and  claws  of  a  beast. 

And  gave  her  a  marvellous  riddle 
That  the  eyeless  should  read  as  he  ran : 
What  crawls  and  runs  and  is  baffled 
By  woman,  the  sphinx  —  but  a  man  ? 

Many  look  in  her  face  and  are  conquered, 
Where  one  all  her  heart  has  explored ; 
A  thousand  have  made  her  their  sovereign, 
But  one  is  her  sovereign  and  lord. 

For  him  she  leaps  from  her  standard 
And  fawns  at  his  feet  in  the  sand, 
Who  sees  that  himself  is  her  riddle, 
And  she  but  the  work  of  his  hand. 


[87] 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN 

The  pathos  in  your  face  is  like  a  peace, 
It  is  like  resignation  or  a  grace 
Which  smiles  at  the  surcease 
Of  hope.     But  there  is  in  your  face 
The  shadow  of  pain,  and  there  is  a  trace 
Of  memory  of  pain. 

I  look  at  you  again  and  again, 

And  hide  my  looks  lest  your  quick  eye  perceives 

My  search  for  your  despair. 

I  look  at  your  pale  hands  —  I  look  at  your  hair ; 

And  I  watch  you  use  your  hands,  I  watch  the  flare 

Of  thought  in  your  eyes  like  light  that  interweaves 

A  flutter  of  color  running  under  leaves  — 

Such  anguished  dreams  in  your  eyes  ! 

And  I  listen  to  you  speak 

Words  like  crystals  breaking  with  a  tinkle, 

Or  a  star's  twinkle. 

Sometimes  as  we  talk  you  rise 

And  leave  the  room,  and  then  I  rub  a  streak 

Of  a  tear  from  my  cheek. 

You  tell  me  such  magical  things 
Of  pictures,  books,  romance 
[88] 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN 

And  of  your  life  in  France 

In  the  varied  music  of  exquisite  words, 

And  in  a  voice  that  sings. 

All  things  are  memory  now  with  you, 

For  poverty  girds 

Your  hopes,  and  only  your  dreams  remain. 

And  sometimes  here  and  there 

I  see  as  you  turn  your  head  a  whitened  hair, 

Even  when  you  are  smiling  most. 

And  a  light  comes  in  your  eyes  like  a  passing  ghost, 

And  a  color  runs  through  your  cheeks  as  fresh 

As  burns  in  a  girl's  flesh. 

Then  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  feel  the  pain 

That  has  become  a  part  of  you,  though  I  feign 

Laughter  myself.     One  sees  another's  bruise 

And  shakes  his  thought  out  of  it  shuddering. 

So  I  turn  and  clamp  my  will  lest  I  bring 

Your  sorrow  into  my  flesh,  who  cannot  choose 

But  hear  your  words  and  laughter, 

And  watch  your  hands  and  eyes. 

Then  as  I  think  you  over  after 

I  have  gone  from  you,  and  your  face 

Comes  to  me  with  its  grace 

Of  memory  of  unfound  love : 

You  seem  to  me  the  image  of  all  women 

Who  dream  and  keep  under  smiles  the  grief  thereof, 

Or  sew,  or  sit  by  windows,  or  read  books 

[89] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

To  hide  their  Secret's  looks. 

And  after  a  time  go  out  of  life  and  leave 

No  uttered  word,  but  in  their  silence  grieve 

For  Life  and  for  the  things  no  tongue  can  tell : 

Why  Life  hurts  so,  and  why  Love  haunts  and  hurts 

Poor  men  and  women  in  this  demi-hell. 

Perhaps  your  pathos  means  that  it  is  well 
Death  in  his  time  the  aspiring  torch  inverts, 
And  all  tired  flesh  and  haunted  eyes  and  hands 
Moving  in  pained  whiteness  are  put  under 
The  soothing  earth  to  brighten  April's  wonder. 


[90] 


IN  THE   CAGE 

The  sounds  of  mid-night  trickle  into  the  roar 
Of  morning  over  the  water  growing  blue. 
At  ten  o'clock  the  August  sunbeams  pour 
A  blinding  flood  on  Michigan  Avenue. 

But  yet  the  half-drawn  shades  of  bottle  green 
Leave  the  recesses  of  the  room 
With  misty  auras  drawn  around  their  gloom 
Where  things  lie  undistinguished,  scarcely  seen. 

You,  standing  between  the  window  and  the  bed 
Are  edged  with  rainbow  colors.     And  I  lie 
Drowsy  with  quizzical  half-open  eye 
Musing  upon  the  contour  of  your  head, 
Watching  you  comb  your  hair, 
Clothed  in  a  corset  waist  and  skirt  of  silk, 
Tied  with  white  braid  above  your  slender  hips 
Which  reaches  to  your  knees  and  makes  your  bare 
And  delicate  legs  by  contrast  white  as  milk. 
And  as  you  toss  your  head  to  comb  its  tresses 
They  flash  upon  me  like  long  strips  of  sand 
Between  a  moonlit  sea,  pale  as  your  hand, 

[91] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  a  red  sun  that  on  a  high  dune  stresses 
Its  sanguine  heat. 

And  then  at  times  your  lips, 
Protruding  half  unconscious  half  in  scorn 
Engage  my  eyes  while  looking  through  the  morn 
At  the  clear  oval  of  your  brow  brought  full 
Over  the  sovereign  largeness  of  your  eyes ; 
Or  at  your  breasts  that  shake  not  as  you  pull 
The  comb  through  stubborn  tangles,  only  rise 
Scarcely  perceptible  with  breath  or  signs, 
Firm  unmaternal  like  a  young  Bacchante's, 
Or  at  your  nose  profoundly  dipped  like  Dante's 
Over  your  chin  that  softly  melts  away. 

Now  you  seem  fully  under  my  heart's  sway. 
I  have  slipped  through  the  magic  of  your  mesh 
Freed  once  again  and  strengthened  by  your  flesh, 
You  seem  a  weak  thing  for  a  strong  man's  play. 
Yet  I  know  now  that  we  shall  scarce  have  parted 
When  I  shall  think  of  you  half  heavy  hearted. 
I  know  our  partings.     You  will  faintly  smile 
And  look  at  me  with  eyes  that  have  no  guile, 
Or  have  too  much,  and  pass  into  the  sphere 
Where  you  keep  independent  life  meanwhile. 
How  do  you  live  without  me,  is  the  fear  ? 
You  do  not  lean  upon  me,  ask  my  love,  or  wonder 
Of  other  loves  I  may  have  hidden  under 
These  casual  renewals  of  our  love. 

[92] 


IN  THE  CAGE 

And  if  I  loved  you  I  should  lie  in  flame, 
And  go  about  re-murmuring  your  name, 
And  these  are  things  a  man  should  be  above. 

And  as  I  lie  here  on  the  imminent  brink 

Of  soul's  surrender  into  your  soul's  power, 

And  in  the  white  light  of  the  morning  hour 

I  see  what  life  would  be  if  we  should  link 

Our  lives  together  in  a  marriage  pact : 

For  we  would  walk  along  a  boundless  tract 

Of  perfect  hell ;   but  your  disloyalty 

Would  be  of  spirit,  for  I  have  not  won 

Mastered  and  bound  your  spirit  unto  me. 

And  if  you  had  a  lover  in  the  way 

I  have  you  it  would  not  by  half  betray 

My  love  as  does  your  vague  and  chainless  thought, 

Which  wanders,  soars  or  vanishes,  returns, 

Changes,  astonishes,  or  chills  or  burns, 

Is  unresisting,  plastic,  freely  wrought 

Under  my  hands  yet  to  no  unison 

Of  my  life  and  of  yours.     Upon  this  brink 

1 1  watch  you  now  and  think 
Of  all  that  has  been  preached  or  sung  or  spoken 
Of  woman's  tragedy  in  woman's  fall ; 

I  And  all  the  pictures  of  a  woman  broken 
By  man's  superior  strength. 

And  there  you  stand 
Your  heart  and  life  as  firmly  in  command 

[93] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Of  your  resolve  as  mine  is,  knowing  all 
Of  man,  the  master,  and  his  power  to  harm, 
His  rulership  of  spheres  material, 
Bread,  customs,  rules  of  fair  repute  — 
What  are  they  all  against  your  slender  arm  ? 
Which  long  since  plucked  the  fruit 
Of  good  and  evil,  and  of  life  at  last 
And  now  of  Life.     For  dancing  you  have  cast 
Veil  after  veil  of  ideals  or  pretense 
With  which  men  clothe  the  being  feminine 
jTo  satisfy  their  lordship  or  their  sense 
Of  ownership  and  hide  the  things  of  sin  — 
You  have  thrown  them  aside  veil  after  veil ; 
And  there  you  stand  unarmored,  weirdly  frail, 
|  Yet  strong  as  nature,  making  comical 
The  poems  and  the  tales  of  woman's  fall.  .  .  . 
You  nod  your  head,  you  smile,  I  feel  the  air 
Made  by  the  closing  door.     I  lie  and  stare 
At  the  closed  door.     One,  two,  your  tufted  steps 
Die  on  the  velvet  of  the  outer  hall. 
You  have  escaped.     And  I  would  not  pursue. 
Though  we  are  but  caged  creatures,  I  and  you  — 
A  male  and  female  tiger  in  a  zoo. 
For  I  shall  wait  you.     Life  himself  will  track 
Your  wanderings  and  bring  you  back, 
And  shut  you  up  again  with  me  and  cage 
Our  love  and  hatred  and  our  silent  rage. 

[94] 


SAVING  A  WOMAN:  ONE  PHASE 

To  a  lustful  thirst  she  came  at  first 

And  gave  him  her  maiden's  pride ; 

And  the  first  man  scattered  the  flower  of  her  love, 

Then  turned  to  his  chosen  bride. 

She  waned  with  grief  as  a  fading  star, 
And  waxed  as  a  shining  flame ; 
And  the  second  man  had  her  woman's  love, 
But  the  second  was  playing  the  game. 

With  passion  she  stirred  the  man  who  was  third ; 

Woe's  me  !   what  delicate  skill 

She  plied  to  the  heart  that  knew  her  art 

And  fled  from  her  wanton  will. 

Now  calm  and  demure,  oh  fair,  oh  pure, 
Oh  subtle,  patient  and  wise, 
She  trod  the  weary  round  of  life, 
With  a  sorrow  deep  in  her  eyes. 

Now  a  hero  who  knew  how  false,  how  true 
Was  the  speech  that  fell  from  her  lips, 
With  a  Norseman's  strength  took  sail  with  her, 
And  landed  and  burnt  his  ships. 

[95] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

He  gave  her  pity,  he  gave  her  mirth, 
And  the  hurt  in  her  heart  he  nursed ; 
But  under  the  silence  of  her  brows 
Was  a  dream  of  the  man  who  was  first. 

And  all  the  deceit  and  lust  of  men 
Had  sharpened  her  own  deceit ; 
And  down  to  the  gates  of  hell  she  led 
Her  friend  with  her  flying  feet. 

For  a  bitten  bud  will  never  bloom, 

And  a  woman  lost  is  lost ! 

And  the  first  and  the  third  may  go  unscathed, 

But  some  man  pays  the  cost. 

And  the  books  of  life  are  full  of  the  rune, 
And  this  is  the  truth  of  the  song : 
No  man  can  save  a  woman's  soul, 
Nor  right  a  woman's  wrong, 


[96] 


LOVE   IS  A  MADNESS 

Love  is  a  madness,  love  is  a  fevered  dream, 
A  white  soul  lost  in  a  field  of  scarlet  flowers  — 
Love  is  a  search  for  the  lost,  the  ever  vanishing  gleam 
Of  wings,  desires  and  sorrows  and  haunted  hours. 

Will  the  look  return  to  your  eyes,  the  warmth  to  your 

hand  ? 

Love  is  a  doubt,  an  ache,  love  is  a  writhing  fear. 
Love  is  a  potion  drunk  when  the  ship  puts  out  from 

land, 
Rudderless,  sails  at  full,  and  with  none  to  steer. 

The  end  is  a  shattered  lamp,  a  drunken  seraph  asleep, 
The  upturned  face  of  the  drowned  on  a  barren  beach. 
The  glare  of  noon  is  o'er  us,  we  are  ashamed  to  weep  — 
The  beginning  and  end  of  love  are  devoid  of  speech. 


[97] 


ON  A  BUST 

Your  speeches  seemed  to  answer  for  the  nonce  — 

They  do  not  justify  your  head  in  bronze ! 

Your  essays  !   talent's  failures  were  to  you 

Your  philosophic  gamut,  but  things  true, 

Or  beautiful,  oh  never !     What's  the  pons 

For  you  to  cross  to  fame  ?  —  Your  head  in  bronze  ? 

What  has  the  artist  caught  ?     The  sensual  chin 
That  melts  away  in  weakness  from  the  skin, 
Sagging  from  your  indifference  of  mind ; 
The  sullen  mouth  that  sneers  at  human  kind 
For  lack  of  genius  to  create  or  rule ; 
The  superficial  scorn  that  says  "you  fool!" 
The  deep-set  eyes  that  have  the  mud-cat  look 
Which  might  belong  to  Tolstoi  or  a  crook. 
The  nose  half-thickly  fleshed  and  half  in  point, 
And  lightly  turned  awry  as  out  of  joint ; 
The  eyebrows  pointing  upward -satyr-wise, 
Scarce  like  Mephisto,  for  you  scarcely  rise 
To  cosmic  irony  in  what  you  dream  — 
More  like  a  tomcat  sniffing  yellow  cream. 
The  brow !     'Tis  worth  the  bronze  it's  molded  in 
Save  for  the  flat-top  head  and  narrow  thin 

[98] 


ON  A  BUST 

Backhead  which  shows  your  spirit  has  not  soared. 
You  are  a  Packard  engine  in  a  Ford, 
Which  wrecks  itself  and  turtles  with  its  load, 
Too  light  and  powerful  to  keep  the  road. 
The  master  strength  for  twisting  words  is  caught 
In  the  swift  turning  wheels  of  iron  thought. 
With  butcher  knives  your  hands  can  vivisect 
Our  butterflies,  but  you  can  not  erect 
Temples  of  beauty,  wisdom.     You  can  crawl 
Hungry  and  subtle  over  Eden's  wall, 
And  shame  half  grown  up  truth,  or  make  a  He 
Full  grown  as  good.     You  cannot  glorify 
Our  dreams,  or  aspirations,  or  deep  thirst. 
To  you  the  world's  a  fig  tree  which  is  curst. 
You  have  preached  every  faith  but  to  betray ; 
The  artist  shows  us  you  have  had  your  day. 

A  giant  as  we  hoped,  in  truth  a  dwarf ; 

A  barrel  of  slop  that  shines  on  Lethe's  wharf, 

Which  seemed  at  first  a  vessel  with  sweet  wine 

For  thirsty  lips.     So  down  the  swift  decline 

You  went  through  sloven  spirit,  craven  heart 

And  cynic  indolence.     And  here  the  art 

Of  molding  clay  has  caught  you  for  the  nonce 

And   made   your   shame   our   shame  —  your   head    in 

bronze ! 

Some  day  this  bust  will  lie  amid  old  metals 
Old  copper  boilers,  wires,  faucets,  kettles. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Some  day  it  will  be  melted  up  and  molded 

In  door  knobs,  inkwells,  paper  knives,  or  folded 

In  leaves  and  wreaths  around  the  capitals 

Of  marble  columns,  or  for  arsenals 

Fashioned  in  something,  or  in  course  of  time 

Successively  made  each  of  these,  from  grime 

Rescued  successively,  or  made  a  bell 

For  fire  or  worship,  who  on  earth  can  tell  ? 

One  thing  is  sure,  you  will  not  long  be  dust 

When  this  bronze  will  be  broken  as  a  bust 

And  given  to  the  junkman  to  re-sell. 

You  know  this  and  the  thought  of  it  is  hell ! 


I  100] 


ARABEL 

Twists  of  smoke  rise  from  the  limpness  of  jewelled 

fingers, 

The  softness  of  Persian  rugs  hushes  the  room. 
Under  a  dragon  lamp  with  a  shade  the  color  of  coral 
Sit  the  readers  of  poems  one  by  one. 
And  all  the  room  is  in  shadow  except  for  the  blur 
Of  mahogany  surface,  and  tapers  against  the  wall. 

And  a  youth  reads  a  poem  of  love :  forever  and  ever 
Is  his  soul  the  soul  of  the  loved  one ;   a  woman  sings 
Of  the  nine  months  which  go  to  the  birth  of  a  soul. 
And  after  a  time  under  the  lamp  a  man 
Begins  to  read  a  letter  having  no  poem  to  read. 
And  the  words  of  the  letter  flash  and  die  like  a  fuse 
Dampened  by  rain  —  it's  a  dying  mind  that  writes 
What  Byron  did  for  the  Greeks  against  the  Turks. 
And  a  sickness  enters  our  hearts.     The  jewelled  hands 
Clutch  at  the  arms  of  the  chairs  —  about  the  room 
One  hears  the  parting  of  lips,  and  a  nervous  shifting 
Of  feet  and  arms. 

And  I  look  up  and  over 

The  reader's  shoulder  and  see  the  name  of  the  writer. 
What  is  it  I  see  ?     The  name  of  a  man  I  knew  I 

f   TOT   1 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

You  are  an  ironical  trickster,  Time,  to  bring 

After  so  many  years  and  into  a  place  like  this 

This  face  before  me :  hair  slicked  down  and  parted 

In  the  middle  and  cheeks  stuck  out  with  fatness, 

Plump  from  camembert  and  clicquot,  eyelids 

Thin  as   skins  of  onions,  cut  like  dough  'round   the 

eyes. 

Such  was  your  look  in  a  photograph  I  saw 
In  a  silver  frame  on  a  woman's  dresser  —  and  such 
Your  look  in  life,  you  thing  of  flesh  alone ! 

And  then 

As  a  soul  looks  down  on  the  body  it  leaves  — 
A  body  by  fever  slain  —  I  look  on  myself 
As  I  was  a  decade  ago,  while  the  letter  is  read : 

I  enter  a  box 

Of  a  theater  with  Jim,  my  friend  of  fifty, 
I  being  twenty-two.     Two  women  are  in  the  box 
One  of  an  age  for  Jim  and  one  of  an  age  for  me. 
And  mine  is  dressed  in  a  dainty  gown  of  dimity, 
And  she  fans  herself  .with  a  fan  of  silver  spangles 
Till  a  subtle  odor  of  delicate  powder  or  of  herself 
Enters  my  blood  and  I  stare  at  her  snowy  neck, 
And  the  glossy  brownness  of  her  hair  until 
She  feels  my  stare,  and  turns  half-view  and  I  see 
How  like  a  Greek's  is  her  nose,  with  just  a  little 
Aquiline  touch ;   and  I  catch  the  flash  of  an  eye, 
And  the  glint  of  a  smile  on  the  richness  of  her  lips. 

[102] 


ARABEL 

The  company  now  discourses  upon  the  letter 
But  my  dream  goes  on : 

I  re-live  a  rapture 

Which  may  be  madness,  and  no  man  understands 
Until  he  feels  it  no  more.  The  youth  that  was  I 
From  the  theater  under  the  city's  lights  follows  the 

girl 

Desperate  lest  in  the  city's  curious  chances 
He  never  sees  her  again.     And  boldly  he  speaks. 
And  she  and  the  older  woman,  her  sister 
Smile  and  speak  in  turn,  and  Jim  who  stands 
While  I  break  the  ice  comes  up  —  and  so 
Arm  in  arm  we  go  to  the  restaurant, 
I  in  heaven  walking  with  Arabel, 
And  Jim  with  her  older  sister. 
We  drive  them  home  under  a  summer  moon, 
And  while  I  explain  to  Arabel  my  boldness, 
And  crave  her  pardon  for  it,  Jim,  the  devil, 
Laughs  apart  with  her  sister  while  I  wonder 
What  Jim,  the  devil,  is  laughing  at.     No  matter 
To-morrow  I  walk  in  the  park  with  Arabel. 

Just  now  the  reader  of  the  letter 
Tells  of  the  writer's  swift  descent 
From  wealth  to  want. 

We  are  in  the  park  next  afternoon  by  the  water. 
I  look  at  her  white  throat  full  as  it  were  of  song. 
And  her  rounded  virginal  bosom,  beautiful ! 
r 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  I  study  her  eyes,  I  search  to  the  depths  her  eyes 
In  the  light  of  the  sun.     They  are  full  of  little  rays 
Like  the  edge  of  a  fleur  de  lys,  and  she  smiles 
At  first  when  I  fling  my  soul  at  her  feet. 

But  when  I  repeat  I  love  her,  love  her  only, 

A  cloud  of  wonder  passes  over  her  face, 

She  veils  her  eyes.     The  color  comes  to  her  cheeks. 

And  when  she  picks  some  clover  blossoms  and  tears 

them 

Her  hand  is  trembling.     And  when  I  tell  her  again 
I  love  her,  love  her  only,  she  blots  her  eyes 
With  a  handkerchief  to  hide  a  tear  that  starts. 

And  she  says  to  me :   "You  do  not  know  me  at  all, 
How  can  you  love  me  ?     You  never  saw  me  before 
Last  night."     "Well,  tell  me  about  yourself." 
And  after  a  time  she  tells  me  the  story : 
About  her  father  who  ran  away  from  her  mother ; 
And  how  she  hated  her  father,  and  how  she  grieved 
When  her  mother  died ;   and  how  a  good  grandmother 
Helped  her  and  helps  her  now.     And  how  her  sister 
Divorced  her  husband.     And  then  she  paused  a  mo 
ment  : 

"I  am  not.  strong,  you'd  have  to  guard  me  gently, 
And  that  takes  money,  dear,  as  well  as  love. 
Two  years  ago  I  was  very  ill,  and  since  then 
I  am  not  strong." 

[104] 


ARABEL 

"Well  I  can  work,"  I  said. 
"And  what  would  you  think  of  a  little  cottage 
Not  too  far  out  with  a  yard  and  hosts  of  roses, 
And  a  vine  on  the  porch,  and  a  little  garden, 
And  a  dining  room  where  the  sun  comes  in, 
When  a  morning  breeze  blows  over  your  brow, 
And  you  sit  across  the  table  and  serve  me 
And  neither  of  us  can  speak  for  happiness 
Without  our  voices  breaking,  or  lips  trembling." 

She  is  looking  down  with  little  frowns  on  her  brow. 
"  But  if  ever  I  had  to  work,  I  could  not  do  it, 
I  am  not  really  well." 

"But  I  can  work,"  I  said. 
I  rise  and  lift  her  up,  holding  her  hand. 
She  slips  her  arm  through  mine  and  presses  it. 
"What  a  good  man  you  are,"  she  said.     "Just  like  a 

brother  — 
I  almost  love  you,  I  believe  I  love  you." 

The  reader  of  the  letter,  being  a  doctor, 
Is  talking  learnedly  of  the  writer's  case 
Which  has  the  classical  marks  of  paresis. 

Next  day  I  look  up  Jim  and  rhapsodize 
About  a  cottage  with  roses  and  a  garden, 
And  a  dining  room  where  the  sun  comes  in, 
And  Arabel  across  the  table.     Jim  is  smoking 
And  flicking  the  ashes,  but  never  says  a  word 

[105] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Till  I  have  finished.     Then  in  a  quiet  voice : 

"Arabel's  sister  says  that  Arabel's  straight, 

But  she  isn't,  my  boy  —  she's  just  like  Arabel's  sister. 

She  knew  you  had  the  madness  for  Arabel. 

That's  why  we  laughed  and  stood  apart  as  we  talked. 

And  I'll  tell  you  now  I  didn't  go  home  that  night, 

I  shook  you  at  the  corner  and  went  back, 

And  staid  that  night.     Now  be  a  man,  my  boy, 

Go  have  your  fling  with  Arabel,  but  drop 

The  cottage  and  the  roses." 

They  are  still  discussing  the  madman's  letter. 

And  memory  permeates  me  like  a  subtle  drug : 

The  memory  of  my  love  for  Arabel, 

The  torture,  the  doubt,  the  fear,  the  restless  longing, 

The  sleepless  nights,  the  pity  for  all  her  sorrows, 

The  speculation  about  her  and  her  sister, 

And  what  her  illness  was ; 

And  whether  the  man  I  saw  one  time  was  leaving 

Her  door  or  the  next  door  to  it,  and  if  her  door 

Whether  he  saw  my  Arabel  or  her  sister.  .  .  . 

The  reader  of  the  letter  is  telling  how  the  writer 
Left  his  wife  chasing  the  lure  of  women. 

And  it  all  comes  back  to  me  as  clear  as  a  vision  : 
The  night  I  sat  with  Arabel  strong  but  conquered. 
Whatever  I  did,  I  loved  her,  whatever  she  was. 
Madness  or  love  the  terrible  struggle  must  end. 
She  took  my  hand  and  said,  "You  must  see  my  room." 
[106] 


ARABEL 

We  stood  in  the  doorway  together  and  on  her  dresser 
Was  a  silver  frame  with  the  photograph  of  a  man  — 
I  had  seen  him  in  life :    hair  slicked  down  and  parted 
In  the  middle  and  cheeks  stuck  out  with  fatness 
Plump  from  camembert  and  clicquot,  eyelids 
Thin  as  skins  of  onions,  cut  like  dough  'round  the  eyes. 
"There  is  his  picture,"  she  said,  "ask  me  whatever  you 

will. 

Take  me  as  mistress  or  wife,  it  is  yours  to  decide. 
But  take   me  as  mistress  and   grow   like  the   picture 

before  you, 

Take  me  as  wife  and  be  the  good  man  you  can  be. 
Choose  me  as  mistress  —  how  can  I  do  less  for  dearest  ? 
Or  make  me  your  wife  —  fate  makes  me  your  mistress 

or  wife." 
"I  can  leave  you,"  I  said.     "You  can  leave  me,"  she 

echoed, 
"But  how  about  hate  in  your  heart." 

"You  are  right,"  I  replied. 

The  company  is  now  discussing  the  subject  of  love  — 
They  seem  to  know  little  about  it. 

But  my  wife,  who  is  sitting  beside  me,  exclaims  : 
"Well,  what  is  this  jangle  of  madness  and  weakness, 
What  has  it  to  do  with  poetry,  tell  me  ?" 

"Well,  it's  life,"  Arabel. 

"There's  the  story  of  Hamlet,  for  instance,"  I  added. 
Then  fell  into  silence. 

[107] 


JIM  AND  ARABEL'S   SISTER 

Last  night  a  friend  of  mine  and  I  sat  talking, 

When  all  at  once  I  found  'twas  one  o'clock. 

So  we  came  out  and  he  went  home  to  wife 

And  children,  and  I  started  for  the  club 

Which  I  call  home ;   and  then  just  like  a  flash 

You  came  into  my  mind.     I  bought  a  slug 

And  stood,  in  the  booth,  with  doubtful  heart  and  heard 

The  buzzer  buzz.     Well,  it  was  sweet  to  me 

To  hear  your  voice  at  last  —  it  was  so  drowsy, 

Like  a  child's  voice.     And  I  could  see  your  eyes 

Heavy  with  sleep,  and  I  could  see  you  standing 

In  nightgown  with  head  leaned  against  the  wall.  .  .  . 

Julia !  the  welcome  of  your  drowsy  voice 

Went  through  me  like  the  warmth  of  priceless  wine  — 

It  showed  your  understanding,  that  you  know 

How  it  is  with  a  man,  and  how  it  is  with  me 

Who  work  by  day  and  sometimes  drift  by  night 

About  this  hellish  city.     Though  you  know 

That  I  am  fifty-one,  can  you  imagine 

My  feeling  with  no  children  growing  up  ? 

My  feeling  as  of  one  who  sees  a  play 

And  afterwards  sits  somewhere  at  a  table 

[108] 


JIM  AND  ARABEL'S   SISTER 

And  talks  with  friends  about  the  different  parts 

Over  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer  ? 

My  feeling  with  this  money  which  I've  made 

And  cannot  use  ?     Sometimes  the  stress  of  working 

The  money  dulls  the  fancy  which  could  use  it 

In  splendid  dreams  or  in  the  art  of  life. 

Well,  here  was  I  ringing  your  bell  at  last 

At  half-past  one,  and  there  you  stood  before  me 

With  a  sleepy  voice  and  a  sleepy  smile,  with  hands 

So  warm,  and  cheeks  so  red  from  sleep,  not  vexed, 

But  like  a  child,  awakened,  who  smiles  at  you 

With  half-shut  eyes  and  kisses  you,  so  you 

Gave  me  a  kiss.     The  world  seems  better,  Julia, 

For  that  kiss  which  you  gave  me  at  the  door.  .  .  . 

Breakfast  ?     Why,  toast  and  coffee,  not  too  strong, 
My  heart  acts  queer  of  late.  .  .  . 

I  want  to  say 

Lest  I  forget  it,  if  you  ever  hear 
From  Arabel  or  Francis  what  I  said 
To  Francis  when  he  told  me  he  intended 
To  marry  Arabel,  why  just  remember 
Our  talk  this  morning  and  forget  I  said  it  — 
I'm  sorry  that  I  said  it.     But,  you  see, 
That  night  we  met,  I  being  fifty-one 
And  old  at  what  men  call  the  game,  looked  on 
With  steady  eye  and  quiet  nerve,  I  saw  you 
Just  as  I'd  see  a  woman  anywhere ; 
[109] 


SONGS   AND  SATIRES 

And  I  found  you  as  I'd  found  others  before  you, 
But  with  this  difference  so  it  seemed  to  me : 
What  had  been  false  with  them  was  real  with  you, 
What  had  been  shame  with  them  with  you  was  life, 
What  had  been  craft  with  them  with  you  was  nature, 
What  had  been  sin  with  them  to  you  was  good, 
What  had  been  vice  with  them  to  you  the  honest 
And  uncorrupted  innocence  of  a  human 
Heart  so  human  looking  on  our  souls. 
What  had  been  coarse  to  them  to  you  was  clean 
As  rain  is,  or  fresh  flowers,  all  things  that  grow 
And  move  and  sing  along  creation's  way. 
You  came  to  me  like  friendship,  what  you  gave 
Was  friendship's  gift,  when  friends  think  least  of  self 
And  least  of  motive.     And  it  is  through  you 
That  I  have  risen  out  of  the  pit  where  sneers 
And  laughter,  looks  and  words  obscene, 
Blaspheme  our  nature.     It  is  through  you,  Julia, 
As  one  amid  great  beach  trees  where  soft  mosses 
Pillow  our  heads  and  where  we  see  the  clouds 
Upon  their  infinite  sailings  and  the  lake 
Washes  beneath  us,  and  we  lie  and  think 
How  this  has  been  forever  and  will  be 
When  we  are  dust  a  thousand,  thousand  years, 
Yet  how  life  is  eternal  —  just  as  one 
Who  there  falls  into  prayer  for  ecstasy 
Of  wonder,  prophecy  could  not  blaspheme 
The  Eternal  Power  (as  he  might  well  blaspheme 

[no] 


JIM  AND  ARABEL'S  SISTER 

The  gospel  hymns  and  ritual)  that  I 

Cannot  blaspheme  you,  Julia. 

For  what  is  our  communion,  yours  and  mine, 

If  it  be  not  a  way  of  laying  hold 

On  that  mysterious  essence  which  makes  one 

Of  heaven  and  earth,  makes  kindred  human  hands.  .  . 

Tears  are  not  like  you,  Julia ;   laugh,  that's  right ! 

Pour  me  a  little  coffee,  if  you  please. 

I'll  take  from  my  herbarium  certain  species 

To  make  my  points :  Now  here  there  is  the  woman 

Of  life  promiscuous,  or  nearly  so. 

She  fixes  her  design  upon  a  man, 

Who's  married  and  the  riotous  game  begins. 

They  go  along  a  year  or  two  perhaps. 

Then  psychic  chemistry  performs  its  part : 

They  are  in  love,  or  he's  in  love  with  her. 

What    shall    be    done   with    love  ?     Now    watch    the 

woman : 

That  which  she  gave  without  love  at  the  first 
She  now  withdraws  in  spite  of  love  unless 
He  breaks  his  life  up,  cuts  all  former  ties 
And  weds  her.     Do  you  wonder  sometimes  men 
Kill  women  with  a  knife  or  strangle  them  ? 
Well,  here's  another :   She  has  been  to  Ogontz, 
You  meet  her  at  a  dinner-dance,  we'll  say. 
She  has  green  eyes  and  hair  as  light  as  jonquils ; 
She  wears  black  velvet  and  a  salmon  sash. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  when  you  dance  with  her  she  has  a  way 

Of  giving  you  her  flesh  beneath  thin  silk, 

Which  almost  lisps  as  she  caresses  you 

With  legs  that  scarcely  touch  you ;   and  she  says 

Things  with  a  double  meaning,  and  she  smiles 

To  carry  out  her  meaning.     Well,  you  think 

The  girl  is  yours,  and  after  weeks  of  chasing 

She  lands  you  up  at  the  appointed  place 

With  mamma,  who  looks  at  you  with  big  eyes, 

That  have  a  nervous  way  of  opening 

And  closing  slowly  like  a  big  wax  doll's, 

From  which  great  clouds  of  wrath  and  wonder  come ; 

Which  meeting  is  a  way  of  saying  to  you : 

The  girl  is  yours  if  you  will  marry  her, 

And  let  her  have  your  money. 

Julia,  be  still ; 

I  can't  go  on  while  you  are  laughing  so. 
I  know  that  men  are  easy,  but  to  see 
Women  as  women  see  them  is  a  gift 
That  comes  to  men  who  reach  my  age  in  life.  .  .  . 

Well,  here's  another,  here's  the  type  of  woman 
Whose  power  of  motherhood  conceals  the  art 
By  which  she  thrives,  through  which  she  reaches  also 
An  apotheosis  in  society. 

Her  dream  is  children  conscious  or  unconscious. 
And  her  strength  is  the  race's,  and  she  draws 
The  urgings  of  posterity  and  leans 

[112] 


JIM  AND  ARABEL'S  SISTER 

Upon  the  hopes  and  ideals  of  the  day. 
To  her  a  man  must  sacrifice  his  life. 
But  women,  Julia,  of  whatever  type, 
Are  still  but  waiting  ovules  seeking  man, 
And  man's  life  to  develop,  even  to  live. 
And  like  the  praying  mantis  who's  devoured 
In  the  embrace,  man  is  devoured  by  women 
In  some  way,  by  some  sort.     Love  is  a  flame 
In  man's  life  where  he  warms  him  but  to  suck 
The  invisible  heat  and  perish.     Life  is  cramped, 
Bound  down  with  many  ropes,  shut  in  by  gates  — 
Love  is  not  free  which  should  be  wholly  free 
For  Life's  sake. 

On  Michigan  Avenue 

At  lunch  time,  or  at  five  o'clock,  you'll  see 
In  rain  or  shine  a  certain  tailor  walk 
In  modish  coat  and  trousers,  with  a  cane. 
That  fellow  is  the  pitifulest  man  I  know. 
He  has  no  woman,  cannot  find  a  woman, 
Because  all  women,  seeing  him,  divine 
What  surges  through  him,  and  within  their  hearts 
Laugh  slyly  and  deny  him  for  the  fun 
Of  seeing  how  denial  keeps  him  walking 
All  up  and  down  the  boulevard.     He's  found 
No  hand  of  human  friendship  like  yours,  Julia. 
I  use  him  for  my  point.     If  we  could  make 
Some  fine  erotometer  one  could  sit 
And  watch  its  trembling  springs  and  nervous  hands 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Record  the  waves  of  longing  in  the  city, 
And  the  urge  of  life  that  writhes  beneath  the  blows 
Of  custom  and  of  fear.     Love  is  not  free,      \ 
Which  should  be  wholly  free  for  Life's  sake./ 

Julia. 

So  much  for  all  these  things,  and  now  for  you 
To  whom  they  lead. 

You'll  find  among  the  marshes 
The  sundew  and  the  pitcher  plant ;   in  shallows, 
Where  the  green  scum  floats  languidly  you'll  find 
The  water  lily  with  white  petals  and 
A  sickly  perfume.     But  the  sundew  catches 
The  midges  flitting  by  with  rainbow  wings, 
Impales  them  on  its  tiny  spines,  in  time 
Devours  them.     And  the  pitcher  plant  holds  out 
Its  cup  of  green  for  larger  bugs,  which  fall 
Into  the  water,  treasured  there  like  tears 
Of  women,  and  so  drowned  are  soon  absorbed 
Into  the  verdant  vesture  of  its  leaves. 
The  pitcher  plant  and  sundew,  water  lily 
Well  typify  the  nature  of  most  women 
Who  must  have  blood  or  soul  of  man  to  live  — 
Except  you,  Julia.     For  my  friend  at  Hinsdale 
Who  raises  flowers  laid  out  a  primrose  bed. 
He  read  somewhere  that  primroses  will  change 
Under  your  eyes  sometimes  to  something  else, 
Become  another  flower  and  not  a  primrose, 


JIM  AND  ARABEL'S  SISTER 

Another  species  even.     So  he  watched 

And  saw  it,  saw  this  miracle !     The  seed 

Has  somewhere  in  its  vital  self  the  power 

Of  this  mutation.     What  is  the  origin 

Of  spiritual  species  ?     For  you're  a  primrose,  Julia, 

Who  has  mutated  :   You  are  not  a  mother ; 

Nor  are  you  yet  the  woman  seeking  marriage ; 

Nor  yet  the  woman  thriving  by  her  sex ; 

Nor  yet  the  woman  spoken  of  by  Solomon 

Who  waits  and  watches  and  whose  steps  lead  down 

To  death  and  hell.     Nor  yet  Delilah  who 

Rejoices  in  the  secret  of  man's  strength 

And  in  subduing  it. 

You  are  a  flower 

Designed  to  comfort  such  poor  men  as  I, 
And  show  the  world  how  love  can  be  a  thing 
jThat  asks  no  more  than  what  it  freely  gives, 
'And  gives  all  —  all  some  women  call  the  prize 
For  life  or  honor,  riches,  power  or  place. 
You  are  a  blossom  in  the  primrose  bed 
So  raised  to  subtler  color,  sweeter  scent. 
You  have  mutated,  Julia,  that  is  it, 
This  flower  of  you  is  what  I  call  The  Lover  ! 


[us] 


THE   SORROW  OF  DEAD   FACES 

I    have   seen    many   faces    changed    by   the  Sculptor 

Death  — 
But  never  a  face  like  Harold's  who  passed  in  a  throe  of 

pain. 
There  were  maidens  and  youths  in  the  bud,  and  men 

in  the  lust  of  life ; 
And  women  whom  child-birth  racked  till  the  crying 

soul  slipped  through ; 

Patriarchs  withered  with  age  and  nuns  ascetical  white ; 
And  one  who  wasted  her  virgin  wealth  in  a  riot  of  joy. 
Brothers  and  sisters  at  last  in  a  quiet  and  purple  pall, 
Fellow  voyagers  bound  to  a  port  on  an  ash-blue  sea, 
Locked  in  an  utterless  grief,  in  a  mystery  fearful  to 

dream. 
All  of  these  I  have  seen  —  but  the  face  of  Harold  the 

bold 
Looked  with  a  penitent  pallor  and  stared  with  a  sad 

surprise. 

For  now  at  last  he  was  still  who  never  knew  rest  in 

life. 
And  the  ardent  heat  of  his  blood  was  cold  as  the  sweat 

of  a  stone. 

[116] 


THE  SORROW  OF  DEAD  FACES 

Life  came  in  an  evil  hour  and  stabbed  with  a  poisoned 

word 
The   heart  of  a  girl  who  faintly  smiled  through  her 

tears. 
And  her  little  life  was  tossed  as  the  eddies  that  whirl 

in  the  hollows 
From  the  great  world-currents  that  wreck  the  battle 

ships  at  sea. 
And  the  face  of  dead  Lillian  seemed  like  a  rain-ruined 

flower. 


Or  what  is  writ  on  the  brow  of  the  babe  as  the  mother 

wails  for  the  day 
When  it  leaped  in  the  light  of  the  sun  and  babbled 

its  pure  delight  ? 

But  the  face  of  William  the  Great  was  fashioned  by 

life  and  thought ; 
And  death  made  it  massive  as  bronze,  and  deepened 

the  lines  thereof : 
Some  for  the  will  and  some  for  patience,  and  some  for 

hope  — 
Hope  for  the  weal  of  the  world  wherein  he  mightily 

strove  — 
Yet  what  did  it  all  bespeak  —  what  but  submission 

and  awe, 
And  a  trace  of  pain  as  one  with  a  sword  in  his  side  ? 

[117] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

I  have  seen  many  faces  changed  by  the  Sculptor  Death 
But  the  sorrow  thereof  is  dumb  like  the  cloth  that  lies 

on  the  brow. 
So  what  should  be  said  of  the  faun  surprised  in  the 

woodland  dances, 
Of  Harold  the  light  of  heart  who  fought  with  fear  to 

the  last  ? 


[H8] 


THE   CRY 

There's  a  voice  in  my  heart  that  cries  and  cries  for 

tears. 

It  is  not  a  voice,  but  a  pain  of  many  fears. 
It  is  not  a  pain,  but  the  rune  of  far-off  spheres. 

It  may  be  a  daemon  of  pent  and  high  emprise, 
That  looks  on  my  soul  till  my  soul  hides  and  cries, 
Loath  to  rebuke  my  soul  and  bid  it  arise. 

It  may  be  myself  as  I  was  in  another  life, 
Fashioned  to  lead  where  strife  gives  way  to  strife, 
Pinioned  here  in  failure  by  knife  thrown  after  knife. 

The  child  turns  o'er  in  the  womb;    and  perhaps  the 

soul 

Nurtures  a  dream  too  strong  for  the  soul's  control, 
When  the  dream  hath  eyes,   and  senses  its  destined 

goal. 

Deep  in  darkness  the  bulb  under  mould  and  clod 
Feels  the  sun  in  the  sky  and  pushes  above  the  sod ; 
Perhaps  this  cry  in  my  heart  is  nothing  but  God ! 

[119] 


THE  HELPING  HAND 

Mother,  my  head  is  bloody,  my  breast  is  red  with  scars. 
Well,  foolish  son,  I  told  you  so,  why  went  you  to  the 
wars  ? 

Mother,  my  soul  is  crucified,  my  thirst  is  past  belief. 
How  are  you  crucified,  my  son,  betwixt  a  thief  and 
thief? 

Mother,  I  feel  the  terror  and  the  loveliness  of  life. 
Tell  me  of  the  children,  son,  and  tell  me  of  the  wife. 

Mother,  your  face  is  but  a  face  among  a  million  more. 
You're  standing  on  the  deck,  my  son,  and  looking  at 
the  shore. 

I  lean  against  the  wall,  mother,  and  struggle  hard  for 
breath. 

You  must  have  heard  the  step,  my  son,  of  the  patrol 
man  Death. 

Mother,  my  soul  is  weary,  where  is  the  way  to  God  ? 
Well,  kiss  the  crucifix,  my  son,  and  pass  beneath  the 
rod. 

[120] 


THE  DOOR 

This  is  the  room  that  thou  wast  ushered  in. 
Wouldst  thou,  perchance,  a  larger  freedom  win  ? 
Wouldst  thou  escape  for  deeper  or  no  breath  ? 
There  is  no  door  but  death. 

Do  shadows  crouch  within  the  mocking  light  ? 
Stand  thou !  but  if  thy  terrored  heart  takes  flight 
Facing  maimed  Hope  and  wide-eyed  Nevermore, 
There  is  no  less  one  door. 

Dost  thou  bewail  love's  end  and  friendship's  doom, 
The  dying  fire,  drained  cup,  and  gathering  gloom  ? 
Explore  the  walls,  if  thy  soul  ventureth  — 
There  is  no  door  but  death. 

There  is  no  window.     Heaven  hangs  aloof 
Above  the  rents  within  the  stairless  roof. 
Hence,  soul,  be  brave  across  the  ruined  floor  — 
Who  knocks  ?     Unbolt  the  door ! 


[121] 


SUPPLICATION 

For  He  knotveth  our  frame,  He  remember eth  thai  we  are  dust. 
PSALM  cm.  14. 

Oh  Lord,  when  all  our  bones  are  thrust 
Beyond  the  gaze  of  all  but  Thine ; 

And  these  blaspheming  tongues  are  dust 
Which  babbled  of  Thy  name  divine, 

How  helpless  then  to  carp  or  rail 
Against  the  canons  of  Thy  word  ; 

Wilt  Thou,  when  thus  our  spirits  fail, 
Have  mercy,  Lord  ? 

Here  from  this  ebon  speck  that  floats 
As  but  a  mote  within  Thine  eye, 

Vain  sneers  and  curses  from  our  throats 
Rise  to  the  vault  of  Thy  fair  sky : 

Yet  when  this  world  of  ours  is  still 
Of  this  all-wondering,  tortured  horde, 

And  none  is  left  for  Thee  to  kill  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 

Thou  knowest  that  our  flesh  is  grass ; 

Ah  !  let  our  withered  souls  remain 
Like  stricken  reeds  of  some  morass, 

Bleached,  in  Thy  will,  by  ceaseless  rain. 
[122] 


SUPPLICATION 

Have  we  not  had  enough  of  fire, 

Enough  of  torment  and  the  sword  ?  — 
If  these  accrue  from  Thy  desire  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 

Dost  Thou  not  see  about  our  feet 
The  tangles  of  our  erring  thought  ? 

Thou  knowest  that  we  run  to  greet 
High  hopes  that  vanish  into  naught. 

We  bleed,  we  fall,  we  rise  again ; 
How  can  we  be  of  Thee  abhorred  ? 

We  are  Thy  breed,  we  little  men  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 

Wilt  Thou  then  slay  for  that  we  slay, 
Wilt  Thou  deny  when  we  deny  ? 

A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day, 
A  little  day  within  Thine  eye : 

We  thirst  for  love,  we  yearn  for  life ; 
We  lust,  wilt  Thou  the  lust  record  ? 

We,  beaten,  fall  upon  the  knife  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 

Thou  givest  us  youth  that  turns  to  age; 

And  strength  that  leaves  us  while  we  seek. 
Thou  pourest  the  fire  of  sacred  rage 

In  costly  vessels  all  too  weak. 
Great  works  we  planned  in  hopes  that  Thou 

Fit  wisdom  therefor  wouldst  accord ; 

[123] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Thou  wrotest  failure  on  our  brow  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 

Could  we  but  know,  as  Thou  dost  know  — 
Hold  the  whole  scheme  at  once  in  mind  ! 

Yet,  dost  Thou  watch  our  anxious  woe 
Who  piece  with  palsied  hands  and  blind 

The  fragments  of  our  little  plan, 

To  thrive  and  earn  Thy  blest  reward, 

And  make  and  keep  the  world  of  man  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 

Thou  settest  the  sun  within  his  place 
To  light  the  world,  the  world  is  Thine, 

Put  in  our  hands  and  through  Thy  grace 
To  be  subdued  and  made  divine. 

Whether  we  serve  Thee  ill  or  well, 

Thou  knowest  our  frame,  nor  canst  afford 

To  leave  Thy  own  for  long  in  hell  — 
Have  mercy,  Lord ! 


124] 


THE   CONVERSATION 

The   Human    Voice 

You  knew  then,  starting  let  us  say  with  ether, 
You  would  become  electrons,  out  of  whirling 
Would  rise  to  atoms ;   then  as  an  atom  resting 
Till  through  Yourself  in  other  atoms  moving 
And  by  the  fine  affinity  of  power 
Atom  with  atom  massed,  You  would  go  on 
Over  the  crest  of  visible  forms  transformed, 
Would  be  a  molecule,  a  little  system 
Wherein  the  atoms  move  like  suns  and  planets 
With  satellites,  electrons.     So  as  worlds  build 
From  star-dust,  as  electron  to  electron, 
The  same  attraction  drawing,  molecules 
Would  wed  and  pass  over  the  crest  again 
Of  visible  forms,  lying  content  as  crystals, 
Or  colloids  —  ready  now  to  use  the  gleam 
Of  life.     As  'twere  I  see  You  with  a  match, 
As  one  in  darkness  lights  a  candle,  and  one 
Sees  not  his  friend's  form  in  the  shadowed  room 
Until  the  candle's  lighted  ?     Even  his  form 
Is  darkened  by  the  new-made  light,  he  stands 
So  near  it !     Well,  I  add  to  all  I've  asked 
Whether  You  knew  the  cell  born  to  the  glint 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Of  that  same  lighted  candle  would  not  rest 

Even  as  electrons  rest  not  —  but  would  surge 

Over  the  crest  of  visible  forms,  become 

Beneath  our  feet  things  hidden  from  the  eye 

However  aided,  —  as  above  our  heads 

Beyond  the  Milky  Way  great  systems  whirl 

Beyond  the  telescope,  —  become  bacilli, 

Amoeba,  starfish,  swimming  things,  on  land 

The  serpent,  and  then  birds,  and  beasts  of  prey 

The  tiger  (You  in  the  tiger)  on  and  on 

Surging  above  the  crest  of  visible  forms  until 

The  ape  came  —  oh  what  ages  they  are  to  us  — 

But  still  creation  flies  on  wings  of  light  — 

Then  to  the  man  who  roamed  the  frozen  fields 

Neither  man  nor  ape,  —  we  found  his  jaw,  You  know, 

At  Heidelberg,  in  a  sand-pit.     On  and  on 

Till  Babylon  was  builded,  and  arose 

Jerusalem  and  Memphis,  Athens,  Rome, 

Venice  and  Florence,  Paris,   London,   Berlin, 

New  York,  Chicago  —  did  You  know,  I  ask, 

All  this  would  come  of  You  in  ether  moving  ? 

A    Voice 
I  knew. 

The  Human    Voice 


OU  knew  that  man  was  born  to  be  destroyed, 
That  as  an  atom  perfect,  whole,  at  ease, 
Drawn  to  some  other  atom,  is  broken,  changed 
[126! 


THE  CONVERSATION 

And  rises  o'er  the  crest  of  visible  things 

To  something  else  —  that  man  must  pass  as  well 

Through  equal  transformation.     And  You  knew 

The  unutterable  things  of  man's  life :    From  the  first 

You  saw  his  wracked  Deucalion-soul  that  looks 

Backward  on  life  that  rises,  where  he  rose 

Out  of  the  stones.     You  saw  him  looking  forward 

Over  the  purple  mists  that  hide  the  gulf. 

Ere  the  green  cell  rose,  even  in  the  green  cell 

You  saw  the  sequences  of  thought  —  You  saw 

That  one  would  say,  "All's  matter"  and  another, 

"All's  mind,"  and  man's  mind  which  reflects  the  image, 

Could  not  envision  it.     That  even  worship 

Of  what  you  are  would  be  donfused  by  cries 

From  India  or  Palestine.     That  love 

Which  sees  itself  beginning  in  the  seeds, 

Which  fly  and  seek  each  other,  maims 

The  soul  at  the  last  in  loss  of  child  or  friend 

Father  or  mother.     And  You  knew  that_sej^ 

Ranging  from  plants  through  beasts  and  up  to  us 

Had  ties  of  filth  —  And  out  of  them  would  rise 

Diverse  philosophies  to  tear  the  world. 

You  knew,  when  the  green  cell  arose,  that  even 

The  You  which  formed  it  moving  on  would  bring 

Races  and  breeds,  madmen,  tyrants,  slaves, 

The  idiot  child,  the  murderer,  the  insane  — 

All  springing  from  the  action  of  one  law. 

You  knew  the  enmity  that  lies  between 

[127] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

The  lives  of  micro-beings  and  our  own.     You  knew 
How  man  would  rise  to  vision  of  himself : 
Immortal  only  in  the  race's  life. 
And  past  the  atom  and  the  first  glint  of  life, 
Saw  him  with  soul  enraptured,  yet  o'ershadowed 
Amid  self-consciousness ! 

A    Voice 

I  knew. 

But  this  your  fault :  You  see  me  as  apart, 
Over,  removed,  at  enmity  with  You. 
You  are  in  Me,  and  of  Me,  even  at  one 
With  Me.     But  there's  your  soul  —  your  soul  may  be 
The  germinal  cell  of  vaster  evolution. 
Why  try  to  tell  you  ?     If  I  gave  a  cell 
Voice  to  inquire,  and  it  should  ask  you  this : 
"After  me  what,  a  stalk,  a  flower,  life 
That  swims  or  crawls  ? "     And  if  I  gave  to  you 
Wisdom  to  say :   "You  shall  become  a  reed 
By  the  water's  edge"  —  how  could  the  cell  foresee 
What  the  reed  is,  bending  beneath  the  wind 
When  the  lake  ripples  and  the  skies  are  blue 
As  larkspur  ?     Therefore  I,  who  moved  in  darkness 
Becoming  Iightm  suns  and  light  in  souls 
And   mind  with   thought  —  for  what  is  thought  but 

light 

Sprung  from  the  clash  of  ether  ?  —  I  am  with  you. 
And  if  beyond  this  stable  state  that  stands 

[128] 


THE  CONVERSATION 

For  your  life  here  (as  cells  are  whole  and  balanced 

Till  the  inner  urge  bring  union,  then  a  breaking 

And  building  up  to  higher  life),  there  is 

No  memory  of  this  world  nor  of  your  thought, 

Nor  sense  of  life  on  this  world  lived  and  borne ; 

Or  whether  you  remember,  know  yourself 

As  one  who  lived  here,  suffered  here,  aspired  — 

What  does  it  matter  ?  —  you  cannot  be  lost, 

As  I  am  lost  not.     Therefore  be  at  peace. 

And  from  the  laws  whose  orbits  cross  and  run 

To  seeming  tangles,  find  the  law  through  which 

Your  soul  shall  be  perfected  till  it  draw,  — 

As  the  green  cell  the  sunlight  draws  and  turns 

Its  chemical  effulgence  into  life  — 

My  inner  splendor.     All  the  rest  is  mine 

In  infinite  time.     For  if  I  should  unroll 

The  parchment  of  the  future,  it  were  vain  — 

You  could  not  read  it. 


129 


TERMINUS 

Terminus  shows  the  ways  and  says, 
"All  things  must  have  an  end." 
Oh,  bitter  thought  we  hid  away 
When  first  you  were  my  friend. 

We  hid  it  in  the  darkest  place 
Our  hearts  had  place  to  hide, 
And  took  the  sweet  as  from  a  spring 
Whose  waters  would  abide. 

For  neither  life  nor  the  wide  world 

Has  greater  store  than  this  :  — 

The  thought  that  runs  through  hands  and  eyes 

And  fills  the  silences. 

There  is  a  void  the  aged  world 
Throws  over  the  spent  heart ; 
When  Life  has  given  all  she  has, 
And  Terminus  says  depart. 

When  we  must  sit  with  folded  hands, 
And  see  with  inward  eye 
A  void  rise  like  an  arctic  breath 
To  hollow  the  morrow's  sky. 
[130] 


TERMINUS 

To-morrow  is,  and  trembling  leaves, 
And  Vildered  winds  from  Thrace 
Look  for  you  where  your  face  has  bloomed, 
And  where  may  bloom  your  face. 

Beyond  the  city,  over  the  hill, 

Under  the  anguished  moon, 

The  winds  and  my  dreams  seek  after  you 

By  meadow,  water  and  dune. 

All  things  must  have  an  end,  we  know ; 
But  oh,  the  dreaded  end ; 
Whether  in  life,  whether  in  death, 
To  lose  the  cherished  friend. 

To  lose  in  life  the  cherished  friend, 
While  the  myrtle  tree  is  green ; 
To  live  and  have  the  cherished  friend 
With  only  the  world  between. 

With  only  the  wide,  wide  world  between, 
Where  memory  has  mortmain. 
Life  pours  more  wine  in  the  heart  of  man 
Than  the  heart  of  man  can  containt 

Oh,  heart  of  man  and  heart  of  woman, 
Thirsting  for  blood  of  the  vine, 
Life  waits  till  the  heart  has  lived  too  much 
And  then  pours  in  new  wine ! 

[131] 


MADELINE 

I  almost  heard  your  little  heart 
Begin  to  beat,  and  since  that  hour 
Your  life  has  grown  apace  and  blossomed, 
Fed  by  the  same  miraculous  power, 

That  moved  the  rivulet  of  your  life, 
And  made  your  heart  begin  to  beat. 
Now  all  day  your  steps  are  a-patter. 
Oh,  what  swift  and  musical  feet ! 

You  sleep.     I  wait  to  see  you  wake, 
With  wonder-eyes  and  hands  that  reach. 
I  laugh  to  hear  your  thoughts  that  gather 
Too  fast  on  your  budding  lips  for  speech. 

Your  sunny  hair  is  cut  as  if 
'Twere  trimmed  around  a  yellow  crock. 
How  gay  the  ribbon,  and  oh,  how  cunning 
The  flaring  skirt  of  the  little  frock ! 

You  build  and  play  and  search  and  pry, 
And  hunt  for  dolls  and  forgotten  toys. 
Why  do  you  never  tire  of  playing, 
Or  cease  from  mischief,  or  cease  from  noise  ? 


MADELINE 

You  will  not  sleep  ?     You  are  tired  of  the  house  ? 
You  are  just  as  naughty  as  you  can  be. 
Madeline,  Madeline,  come  to  the  garden, 
And  play  with  Marcia  under  the  tree ! 


[133 


MARCIA 

Madeline's  hair  is  straight  and  yours 
Is  just  as  curly  as  tendril  vines ; 
And  she  is  fair,  but  a  deeper  color 
Your  cheeks  of  olive  incarnadines. 

A  serious  wisdom  burns  and  glows 
Steadily  in  your  dark-eyed  look. 
Already  a  wit  and  a  little  stoic  — 
Perhaps  you  are  going  to  write  a  book, 

Or  paint  a  picture,  or  sing  or  act 

The  part  of  Katherine  or  Juliet. 

I  believe  you  were  born  with  the  gift  of  knowing 

When  to  remember  and  when  to  forget. 

And  when  to  stifle  and  kill  a  grief, 
And  clutch  your  heart  when  it  beats  in  vain. 
The  heart  that  has  most  strength  for  feeling 
Must  have  the  strength  to  conquer  the  pain. 

You  understand  ?     It  seems  that  you  do  — 
Though  you  cannot  utter  a  word  to  me. 
Marcia,  Marcia,  look  at  Madeline 
Building  a  doll-house  under  the  tree ! 

[134] 


THE  ALTAR 

My  heart  is  an  altar  whereon 

Many  sacrificial  fires  have  been  kindled 

In  praise  of  spring  and  Aphrodite. 

My  heart  is  an  altar  of  chalcedony, 
Crowned  with  a  tablet  of  bronze, 
Blacked  with  smoke,  scarred  with  fire, 
And  scented  with  the  aromatic  bitterness 
Of  dead  incense. 

Albeit  let  us  murmur  a  little  Doric  prayer 

Over  the  ashes  which  lie  scattered  around  the  altar ; 

For  the  April  rain  has  wept  over  them, 

And  from  them  the  crocus  smelts  its  Roman  gold. 

What  though  there  are  remnants  here 

Of  faded  coronals, 

And  bits  of  silver  string 

Torn  from  forgotten  harps  ? 

Perfect  amid  the  ashes  sleeps  a  cup  of  amethyst. 

Let  us  take  it  and  pour  the  sea  from  it, 

And  while  the  savor  of  dead  lips  is  washed  away, 

Let  us  lift  our  hands  to  this  sky  of  hyacinth. 

Let  us  light  the  altar  newly,  for  lo !   it  is  spring. 

[135] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Bring  from  the  re-kindled  woodland 

Flames  of  columbine,  jewel-weed  and  trumpet-creeper, 

There  where  the  woodman  burns  the  fallen  tree, 

And  scented  smoke  arises 

On  azure  wings  between  the  branches, 

Budding  with  adolescent  life. 

With  these  let  us  light  the  altar, 

That  a  scarlet  flame  may  lean 

Against  the  silver  sea. 

For  thou  art  fire  also, 

And  air,  and  water,  and  the  resurgent  earth, 

For  thou  art  woman,  thou  art  love. 

Thou  art  April  of  the  Arcadian  moon, 

Thou  art  the  swift  sun  racing  through  snowy  clouds, 

Thou  art  the  creative  silence  of  flowering  valleys. 

Thy  face  is  the  apple  tree  in  bloom ; 

Thine  eyes  the  glimpses  of  green  water 

When  the  tree's  blossoms  shake 

As  soft  winds  fan  them. 

Thy  hair  is  flame  blown  against  the  sea's  mist  — 

Thou  art  spring. 

The  fire  on  the  altar  burns  brightly, 
And  the  sea  sparkles  in  the  sun. 
Let  us  murmur  a  Doric  prayer 
For  the  gift  of  love, 
For  the  gift  of  life, 

Oh  Life  !     Oh  Love  !     We  lift  our  hands  to  thee ! 
[136] 


SOUL'S   DESIRE 

Her  soul  is  like  a  wolf  that  stands 
Where  sunlight  falls  between  the  trees 
Of  a  sparse  forest's  leafless  edge, 
When  Spring's  first  magic  moveth  these. 

Her  soul  is  like  a  little  brook, 
Thin  edged  with  ice  against  the  leaves, 
Where  the  wolf  drinks  and  is  alone, 
And  where  the  woodbine  interweaves. 

A  bank  late  covered  by  the  snow, 
But  lighted  by  the  frozen  North ; 
Her  soul  is  like  a  little  plot 
That  one  white  blossom  bringeth  forth. 

Her  soul  is  slim,  like  silver  slips, 
And  straight,  like  flags  beside  a  stream. 
Her  soul  is  like  a  shape  that  moves 
And  changes  in  a  wonder  dream. 

Who  would  pursue  her  clasps  a  cloud, 
And  taketh  sorrow  for  his  zeal. 
Memory  shall  sing  him  many  songs 
While  bound  upon  the  torture  wheel. 

[137] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Her  soul  is  like  a  wolf  that  glides 
By  moonlight  o'er  a  phantom  ridge ; 
Her  face  is  like  a  light  that  runs 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  bridge. 

Her  voice  is  like  a  woodland  cry 
Heard  in  a  summer's  desolate  hour. 
Her  eyes  are  dim ;   her  lips  are  faint, 
And  tinctured  like  the  cuckoo  flower. 

Her  little  breasts  are  like  the  buds 
Of  tulips  in  a  place  forlorn. 
Her  soul  is  like  a  mandrake  bloom 
Standing  against  the  crimson  moon. 

Her  dream  is  like  the  fenny  snake's, 
That  warms  him  in  the  noonday's  fire. 
She  hath  no  thought,  nor  any  hope, 
Save  of  herself  and  her  desire. 

She  is  not  life ;   she  is  not  death ; 
She  is  not  fear,  or  joy  or  grief. 
Her  soul  is  like  a  quiet  sea 
Beneath  a  ruin-haunted  reef. 

She  is  the  shape  the  sailor  sees, 
That  slips  the  rock  without  a  sound. 
She  is  the  soul  that  comes  and  goes 
And  leaves  no  mark,  yet  makes  a  wound. 

[138] 


SOUL'S   DESIRE 

She  is  the  soul  that  hunts  and  flies ; 
She  is  a  world-wide  mist  of  care. 
She  is  the  restlessness  of  life, 
Its  rapture  and  despair. 


139] 


BALLAD    OF    LAUNCELOT   AND    ELAINE 

It  was  a  hermit  on  Whitsunday 
That  came  to  the  Table  Round. 
"  King  Arthur,  wit  ye  by  what  Knight 
May  the  Holy  Grail  be  found  ?" 

"  By  never  a  Knight  that  liveth  now ; 
By  none  that  feasteth  here." 
King  Arthur  marvelled  when  he  said, 
"He  shall  be  got  this  year." 

Then  uprose  brave  Sir  Launcelot 
And  there  did  mount  his  steed, 
And  hastened  to  a  pleasant  town 
That  stood  in  knightly  need. 

Where  many  people  him  acclaimed, 
He  passed  the  Corbin  pounte, 
And  there  he  saw  a  fairer  tower 
Than  ever  was  his  wont. 

And  in  that  tower  for  many  years 
A  dolorous  lady  lay, 

Whom  Queen  Northgalis  had  bewitched, 
And  also  Queen  le  Fay. 
[140] 


BALLAD  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND  ELAINE 

And  Launcelot  loosed  her  from  those  pains, 
And  there  a  dragon  slew. 
Then  came  King  Pelles  out  and  said, 
"Your  name,  brave  Knight  and  true?"' 

"My  name  is  Pelles,  wit  ye  well, 
And  King  of  the  far  country ; 
And  I,  Sir  Knight,  am  cousin  nigh 
To  Joseph  of  Armathie." 

"I  am  Sir  Launcelot  du  Lake." 
And  then  they  clung  them  fast ; 
And  yede  into  the  castle  hall 
To  take  the  king's  repast. 

Anon  there  cometh  in  a  dove 

By  the  window's  open  fold, 

And  in  her  mouth  was  a  rich  censer, 

That  shone  like  Ophir  gold. 

And  therewithal  was  such  savor 
As  bloweth  over  sea 
From  a  land  of  many  colored  flowers 
And  trees  of  spicery. 

And  therewithal  was  meat  and  drink, 
And  a  damsel  passing  fair, 
Betwixt  her  hands  of  tulip-white, 
A  golden  cup  did  bear. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

"O,  Jesu,"  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
"What  may  this  marvel  mean"?" 
"That  is,"  said  Pelles,  "richest  thing 
That  any  man  hath  seen." 

"O,  Jesu,"  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
"What  may  this  sight  avail  ?" 
"Now  wit  ye  well,"  said  King  Pelles, 
"That  was  the  Holy  Grail." 

Then  by  this  sign  King  Pelles  knew 
Elaine  his  fair  daughter 
Should  lie  with  Launcelot  that  night, 
And  Launcelot  with  her. 

And  that  this  twain  should  get  a  child 
Before  the  night  should  fail, 
Who  would  be  named  Sir  Galahad, 
And  find  the  Holy  Grail. 

Then  cometh  one  hight  Dame  Brisen 
With  Pelles  to  confer, 
"Now,  wit  ye  well,  Sir  Launcelot 
Loveth  but  Guinevere." 

"  But  if  ye  keep  him  well  in  hand, 
The  while  I  work  my  charms, 
The  maid  Elaine,  ere  spring  of  morn, 
Shall  lie  within  his  arms." 

[142] 


BALLAD  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND   ELAINE 

Dame  Brisen  was  the  subtlest  witch 
That  was  that  time  in  life ; 
She  was  as  if  Beelzebub 
Had  taken  her  to  wife. 

Then  did  she  cause  one  known  of  face 

To  Launcelot  to  bring, 

As  if  it  came  from  Guinevere, 

Her  wonted  signet  ring. 

"  By  Holy  Rood,  thou  comest  true, 
For  well  I  know  thy  face. 
Where  is  my  lady?"  asked  the  Knight, 
"There  in  the  Castle  Case  ?" 

"'Tis  five  leagues  scarcely  from  this  hall," 
Up  spoke  that  man  of  guile. 
"I  go  this  hour,"  said  Launcelot, 
"Though  it  were  fifty  mile." 

Then  sped  Dame  Brisen  to  the  king 
And  whispered,  "An  we  thrive, 
Elaine  must  reach  the  Castle  Case 
Ere  Launcelot  arrive." 

Elaine  stole  forth  with  twenty  knights 
And  a  goodly  company. 
Sir  Launcelot  rode  fast  behind, 
Queen  Guinevere  to  see. 

[143] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Anon  he  reached  the  castle  door. 

Oh !  fond  and  well  deceived. 

And  there  it  seemed  the  queen's  own  train 

Sir  Launcelot  received. 

"Where  is  the  queen?"  quoth  Launcelot, 
For  I  am  sore  bestead," 
"Have  not  such  haste,"  said  Dame  Brisen, 
"The  queen  is  now  in  bed." 

"Then  lead  me  thither,"  saith  he, 
"And  cease  this  jape  of  thine." 
"Now  sit  thee  down,"  said  Dame  Brisen, 
"And  have  a  cup  of  wine." 

"For  wit  ye  not  that  many  eyes 
Upon  you  here  have  stared ; 
Now  have  a  cup  of  wine  until 
All  things  may  be  prepared." 

Elaine  lay  in  a  fair  chamber, 
'Twixt  linen  sweet  and  clene. 
Dame  Brisen  all  the  windows  stopped, 
That  no  day  might  be  seen. 

Dame  Brisen  fetched  a  cup  of  wine 
And  Launcelot  drank  thereof. 
"No  more  of  flagons,"  saith  he, 
"  For  I  am  mad  for  love." 

[144] 


BALLAD  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND  ELAINE 

Dame  Brisen  took  Sir  Launcelot 
Where  lay  the  maid  Elaine. 
Sir  Launcelot  entered  the  bed  chamber 
The  queen's  love  for  to  gain. 

Sir  Launcelot  kissed  the  maid  Elaine, 
And  her  cheeks  and  brows  did  burn ; 
And  then  they  lay  in  other's  arms 
Until  the  morn's  underne. 

Anon  Sir  Launcelot  arose 
And  toward  the  window  groped, 
And  then  he  saw  the  maid  Elaine 
When  he  the  window  oped. 

"Ah,  traitoress,"  saith  Launcelot, 
And  then  he  gat  his  sword, 
"That  I  should  live  so  long  and  now 
Become  a  knight  abhorred." 

"False  traitoress,"  saith  Launcelot, 
And  then  he  shook  the  steel. 
Elaine  skipped  naked  from  the  bed 
And  'fore  the  knight  did  kneel. 

"I  am  King  Pelles  own  daughter 
And  thou  art  Launcelot, 
The  greatest  knight  of  all  the  world. 
This  hour  we  have  begot." 

i  [H5] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

"Oh,  traitoress  Brisen,"  cried  the  knight, 
"Oh,  charmed  cup  of  wine; 
That  I  this  treasonous  thing  should  do 
For  treasures  such  as  thine." 

"Have  mercy,"  saith  maid  Elaine, 
"Thy  child  is  in  my  womb." 
Thereat  the  morning's  silvern  light 
Flooded  the  bridal  room. 

That  light  it  was  a  benison ; 
It  seemed  a  holy  boon, 
As  when  behind  a  wrack  of  cloud 
Shineth  the  summer  moon. 

And  in  the  eyes  of  maid  Elaine 
Looked  forth  so  sweet  a  faith, 
Sir  Launcelot  took  his  glittering  sword, 
And  thrust  it  in  the  sheath. 

"  So  God  me  help,  I  spare  thy  life, 
But  I  am  wretch  and  thrall, 
If  any  let  my  sword  to  make 
Dame  Brisen's  head  to  fall." 

"  So  have  thy  will  of  her,"  she  said, 
"  But  do  to  me  but  good ; 
For  thou  hast  had  my  fairest  flower, 
Which  is  my  maidenhood." 


BALLAD  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND  ELAINE 

"And  we  have  done  the  will  of  God, 
And  the  will  of  God  is  best." 
Sir  Launcelot  lifted  the  maid  Elaine 
And  hid  her  on  his  breast. 

Anon  there  cometh  in  a  dove, 
By  the  window's  open  fold, 
And  in  her  mouth  was  a  rich  censer 
That  shone  like  beaten  gold. 

And  therewithal  was  such  savor, 
As  bloweth  over  sea, 
From  a  land  of  many  colored  flowers, 
And  trees  of  spicery. 

And  therewithal  was  meat  and  drink, 
And  a  damsel  passing  fair, 
Betwixt  her  hands  of  silver  white 
A  golden  cup  did  bear. 

"O  Jesu,"  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
"What  may  this  marvel  mean?" 
"That  is,"  she  said,  "the  richest  thing 
That  any  man  hath  seen." 

"O  Jesu,"  said  Sir  Launcelot, 
"What  may  this  sight  avail  ?" 
"Now  wit  ye  well,"  said  maid  Elaine, 
"This  is  the  Holy  Grail." 

[1471 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  then  a  nimbus  light  hung  o'er 
Her  brow  so  fair  and  meek ; 
And  turned  to  orient  pearls  the  tears 
That  glistered  down  her  cheek. 

And  a  sound  of  music  passing  sweet 
Went  in  and  out  again. 
Sir  Launcelot  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
And  knelt  to  maid  Elaine. 

"Name  him  whatever  name  thou  wilt, 
But  be  his  sword  and  mail 
Thrice  tempered  'gainst  a  wayward  world, 
That  lost  the  Holy  Grail." 

Sir  Launcelot  sadly  took  his  leave 
And  rode  against  the  morn. 
And  when  the  time  was  fully  come 
Sir  Galahad  was  born. 

Also  he  was  from  Jesu  Christ, 
Our  Lord,  the  eighth  degree ; 
Likewise  the  greatest  knight  this  world 
May  ever  hope  to  see. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT 

Sir  Launcelot  had  fled  to  France 
For  the  peace  of  Guinevere, 
And  many  a  noble  knight  was  slain, 
And  Arthur  lay  on  his  bier. 

Sir  Launcelot  took  ship  from  France 
And  sailed  across  the  sea. 
He  rode  seven  days  through  fair  England 
Till  he  came  to  Almesbury. 

Then  spake  Sir  Bors  to  Launcelot : 
The  old  time  is  at  end ; 
You  have  no  more  in  England's  realm 
In  east  nor  west  a  friend. 

You  have  no  friend  in  all  England 
Sith  Mordred's  war  hath  been, 
And  Queen  Guinevere  became  a  nun 
To  heal  her  soul  of  sin. 

Sir  Launcelot  answered  never  a  word 
But  rode  to  the  west  countree 
Until  through  the  forest  he  saw  a  light 
That  shone  from  a  nunnery. 

[H9] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Sir  Launcelot  entered  the  cloister, 
And  the  queen  fell  down  in  a  swoon. 
Oh  blessed  Jesu,  saith  the  queen, 
For  thy  mother's  love,  a  boon. 

Go  hence,  Sir  Launcelot,  saith  the  queen, 
And  let  me  win  God's  grace. 
My  heavy  heart  serves  me  no  more 
To  look  upon  thy  face. 

Through  you  was  wrought  King  Arthur's  death, 
Through  you  great  war  and  wrake. 
Leave  me  alone,  let  me  bleed, 
Pass  by  for  Jesu's  sake. 

Then  fare  you  well,  saith  Launcelot, 
Sweet  Madam,  fare  you  well. 
And  sythen  you  have  left  the  world 
No  more  in  the  world  I  dwell. 

Then  up  rose  sad  Sir  Launcelot 
And  rode  by  wold  and  mere 
Until  he  came  to  a  hermitage 
Where  bode  Sir  Bedivere. 

And  there  he  put  a  habit  on 
And  there  did  pray  and  fast. 
And  when  Sir  Bedivere  told  him  all 
His  heart  for  sorrow  brast. 
[150] 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT 

How  that  Sir  Mordred,  traitorous  knight 
Betrayed  his  King  and  sire  ; 
And  how  King  Arthur  wounded,  died 
Broken  in  heart's  desire. 

And  so  Sir  Launcelot  penance  made, 
And  worked  at  servile  toil ; 
And  prayed  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury 
His  sins  for  to  assoil. 

His  shield  went  clattering  on  the  wall 
To  a  dolorous  wail  of  wind ; 
His  casque  was  rust,  his  mantle  dust 
With  spider  webs  entwined. 

His  listless  horses  left  alone 
Went  cropping  where  they  would, 
To  see  the  noblest  knight  of  the  world 
Upon  his  sorrow  brood. 

Anon  a  Vision  came  in  his  sleep, 
And  thrice  the  Vision  saith  : 
Go  thou  to  Almesbury  for  thy  sin, 
Where  lieth  the  queen  in  death. 

Sir  Launcelot  cometh  to  Almesbury 
And  knelt  by  the  dead  queen's  bier ; 
Oh  none  may  know,  moaned  Launcelot, 
What  sorrow  lieth  here. 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

What  love,  what  honor,  what  defeat 
What  hope  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  moon  looked  through  the  latticed  glass 
On  the  queen's  face  cold  and  pale. 

Sir  Launcelot  kissed  the  cered  cloth, 
And  none  could  stay  his  woe, 
Her  hair  lay  back  from  the  oval  brow, 
And  her  nose  was  clear  as  snow. 

They  wrapped  her  body  in  cloth  of  Raines, 
They  put  her  in  webs  of  lead. 
They  coffined  her  in  white  marble, 
And  sang  a  mass  for  the  dead. 

Sir  Launcelot  and  seven  knights 
Bore  torches  around  the  bier. 
They  scattered  myrrh  and  frankincense 
On  the  corpse  of  Guinevere. 

They  put  her  in  earth  by  King  Arthur 
To  the  chant  of  a  doleful  tune. 
They  heaped  the  earth  on  Guinevere 
And  Launcelot  fell  in  a  swoon. 

Sir  Launcelot  went  to  the  hermitage 
Some  Grace  of  God  to  find ; 
But  never  he  ate,  and  never  he  drank 
And  there  he  sickened  and  dwined. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT 

Sir  Launcelot  lay  in  a  painful  bed, 
And  spake  with  a  dreary  Steven ; 
Sir  Bishop,  I  pray  you  shrive  my  soul 
And  make  it  clean  for  heaven. 

The  Bishop  houseled  Sir  Launcelot, 
The  Bishop  kept  watch  and  ward. 
Bury  me,  saith  Sir  Launcelot, 
In  the  earth  of  Joyous  Guard. 

Three  candles  burned  the  whole  night  through 
Till  the  red  dawn  looked  in  the  room. 
And  the  white,  white  soul  of  Launcelot 
Strove  with  a  black,  black  doom. 

I  see  the  old  witch  Dame  Brisen, 
And  Elaine  so  straight  and  tall  — 
Nay,  saith  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 
The  shadows  dance  on  the  wall. 

I  see  long  hands  of  dead  women, 
They  clutch  for  my  soul  eftsoon ; 
Nay,  saith  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 
'Tis  the  drifting  light  of  the  moon. 

I  see  three  angels,  saith  he, 
Before  a  silver  urn. 
Nay,  saith  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 
The  candles  do  but  burn. 

[153], 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

I  see  a  cloth  of  red  samite 

O'er  the  holy  vessels  spread. 

Nay,  saith  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 

The  great  dawn  groweth  red. 

I  see  all  the  torches  of  the  world 
Shine  in  the  room  so  clear. 
Nay,  saith  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 
The  white  dawn  draweth  near. 

Sweet  lady,  I  behold  the  face 

Of  thy  dear  son,  our  Lord, 

Nay,  saith  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 

The  sun  shines  on  your  sword. 

Sir  Galahad  outstretcheth  hands 
And  taketh  me  ere  I  fail  — 
Sir  Launcelot's  body  lay  in  death 
As  his  soul  found  the  Holy  Grail. 

They  laid  his  body  in  the  quire 
Upon  a  purple  pall. 
He  was  the  meekest,  gentlest  knight 
That  ever  ate  in  hall. 

He  was  the  kingliest,  goodliest  knight 
That  ever  England  roved, 
The  truest  lover  of  sinful  man 
That  ever  woman  loved. 

[154] 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT 

I  pray  you  all,  fair  gentlemen, 
Pray  for  his  soul  and  mine. 
He  lived  to  lose  the  heart  he  loved 
And  drink  but  bitter  wine. 

He  wrought  a  woe  he  knew  not  of, 
He  failed  his  fondest  quest, 
Now  sing  a  psalter,  read  a  prayer 
May  all  souls  find  their  rest. 


Amen. 


155 


IN  MICHIGAN 
You  wrote : 

"  Come  over  to  Saugatuck 
And  be  with  me  on  the  warm  sand, 
And  under  cool  beeches  and  aromatic  cedars." 
And  just  then  no  one  could  do  a  thing  in  the  city 
For  the  lure  of  far  places,  and  something  that  tugged 
At  one's  heart  because  of  a  June  sky, 
And  stretches  of  blue  water, 
And  a  warm  wind  blowing  from  the  south. 
What  could  I  do  but  take  a  boat 
And  go  to  meet  you  ? 

And  when  to-day  is  not  enough, 
But  you  must  live  to-morrow  also ; 
And  when  the  present  stands  in  the  way 
Of  something  to  come, 
And  there  is  but  one  you  would  see, 
All  the  interval  of  waiting  is  a  wall. 
And  so  it  was  I  walked  the  landward  deck 
With  flapping  coat  and  hat  pulled  down ; 
And  I  sat  on  the  leeward  deck  and  looked 
At  the  streaming  smoke  of  the  funnels, 
And  the  far  waste  of  rhythmical  water, 
And  at  the  gulls  flying  by  our  side. 

[156] 


IN  MICHIGAN 

There  was  music  on  board  and  dancing, 

But  I  could  not  take  part. 

For  above  all  there  was  the  bluest  sky, 

And  around  us  the  urge  of  magical  distances. 

And  just  because  you  were  in  the  violins, 

And  in  everything,  and  were  wholly  the  world 

Of  sense  and  sight, 

It  was  too  much.     One  could  not  live  it 

And  make  it  all  his  own  — 

It  was  too  much. 

And  I  wondered  where  the  rest  could  be  going, 

Or  what  they  thought  of  water  and  sky 

Without  knowing  you. 

But  at  four  o'clock  there  was  a  rim, 

A  circled  edge  of  rainbow  color 

Which  suspired,   widened   and   narrowed  under  your 

gaze: 

It  was  the  phantasy  of  straining  eyes, 
Or  land  —  and  it  was  land. 
It  was  distant  trees. 

And  then  it  was  dunes,  bluffs  of  yellow  sand. 
We  began  to  wonder  how  far  it  was  — 
Five  miles,  or  ten  miles  — 
Surely  only  five  miles  !  — 

But  at  last  whatever  it  was  we  swung  to  the  end. 
We  rounded  the  lighthouse  pier, 
Almost  before  we  knew. 

[157] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

We  slowed  our  speed  in  a  dizzy  river  of  black, 
We  drifted  softly  to  dock. 

I  took  the  ferry, 

I  crossed  the  river, 

I  ran  almost  through  the  little  batch 

Of  fishermen's  shacks. 

I  climbed  the  winding  road  of  the  hill, 

And  dove  in  a  shadowy  quiet 

Of  paths  of  moss  and  dancing  leaves, 

And  straight  stretched  limbs  of  giant  pines 

On  patches  of  sky. 

I  ran  to  the  top  of  the  bluff 

Where  the  lodge-house  stood. 

And  there  the  sunlit  lake  burst  on  me 

And  wine-like  air. 

And  below  me  was  the  beach 

Where  the  serried  lines  of  hurrying  water 

Came  up  like  rank  on  rank  of  men 

And  fell  with  a  shout  on  the  rocks  ! 

I  plunged,  I  stumbled,  I  ran 

Down  the  hill, 

For  I  thought  I  saw  you, 

And  it  was  you,  you  were  there ! 

And  I  shall  never  forget  your  cry, 

Nor  how  you  raised  your  arms  and  cried, 

And  laughed  when  you  saw  me. 

And  there  we  were  with  the  lake 

[158] 


IN  MICHIGAN 

And  the  sun  with  his  ruddy  search-light  blaze 

Stretching  back  to  lost  Chicago. 

The  sun,  the  lake,  the  beach,  and  ourselves 

Were  all  that  was  left  of  Time, 

All  else  was  lost. 

You  were  making  a  camp. 

You  had  bent  from  the  bank  a  cedar  bough 

And  tied  it  down. 

And  over  it  flung  a  quilt  of  many  colors, 

And  under  it  spread  on  the  voluptuous  silt 

Gray  blankets  and  canvas  pillows. 

I  saw  it  all  in  a  glance. 

And  there  in  dread  of  eyes  we  stood 

Scanning  the  bluff  and  the  beach, 

Lest  in  the  briefest  touch  of  lips 

We  might  be  seen. 

For  there  were  eyes,  or  we  thought 

There  were  eyes,  on  the  porch  of  the  lodge, 

And  eyes  along  the  forest's  rim  on  the  hill, 

And  eyes  on  the  shore. 

But  a  minute  past  there  was  no  sun, 

Only  a  star  that  shone  like  a  match  which  lights 

To  a  blue  intenseness  amid  the  glow  of  a  hearth. 

And  we  sat  on  the  sand  as  dusk  came  down 

In  a  communion  of  silence  and  low  words. 

Till  you  said  at  last :   "We'll  sup  at  the  lodge, 

[159] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Then  say  good  night  to  me  and  leave 

As  if  to  stay  overnight  in  the  village. 

But  instead  make  a  long  detour  through  the  wood 

And  come  to  the  shore  through  that  ravine, 

Be  here  at  the  tent  at  midnight." 

And  so  I  did. 

I  stole  through  echoless  ways, 

Where  no  twigs  broke  and  where  I  heard 

My  heart  beat  like  a  watch  under  a  pillow. 

And  the  whippoorwills  were  singing. 

And  the  sound  of  the  surf  below  me 

Was  the  sound  of  silver-poplar  leaves 

In  a  wind  that  makes  no  pause.  .  .  . 

I  hurried  down  the  steep  ravine, 

And  a  bat  flew  up  at  my  feet  from  the  brush 

And  crossed  the  moon. 

To  my  left  was  the  lighthouse, 

And  black  and  deep  purples  far  away, 

And  all  was  still. 

Till  I  stood  breathless  by  the  tent 

And  heard  your  whispered  welcome, 

And  felt  your  kiss. 

Lovers  lay  at  mid-night 
On  roofs  of  Memphis  and  Athens 
And  looked  at  tropical  stars 
As  large  as  golden  beetles. 
Nothing  is  new,  save  this, 
[160] 


IN  MICHIGAN 

And  this  is  always  new. 

And  there  in  your  tent 

With  the  balm  of  the  mid-night  breeze 

Sweeping  over  us, 

We  looked  at  one  great  star 

Through  a  flap  of  your  many-colored  tent, 

And  the  eternal  quality  of  rapture 

And  mystery  and  vision  flowed  through  us. 

Next  day  we  went  to  Grand  Haven, 
For  my  desire  was  your  desire, 
Whatever  wish  one  had  the  other  had. 
And  up  the  Grand  River  we  rowed, 
With  rushes  and  lily  pads  about  us, 
And  the  sand  hills  back  of  us, 
Till  we  came  to  a  quiet  land, 
A  lotus  place  of  farms  and  meadows. 
And  we  tied  our  boat  to  Schmitty's  dock, 
Where  we  had  a  dinner  of  fish. 
And  where,  after  resting,  to  follow  your  will 
We  drifted  back  to  Spring  Lake  — 
And  under  a  larger  moon, 
Now  almost  full, 

Walked  three  miles  to  The  Beeches, 
By  a  winding  country  road, 
Where  we  had  supper. 
And  afterwards  a  long  sleep, 
Waking  to  the  song  of  robins. 
fi6il 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  that  day  I  said : 

There  are  wild  places,  blue  water,  pine  forests, 

There  are  apple  orchards,  and  wonderful  roads 

Around  Elk  Lake  —  shall  we  go  ? 

And  we  went,  for  your  desire  was  mine. 

And  there  we  climbed  hills, 

And  ate  apples  along  the  shaded  ways, 

And  rolled  great  boulders  down  the  steeps 

To  watch  them  splash  in  the  water. 

And  we  stood  and  wondered  what  was  beyond 

The  farther  shore  two  miles  away. 

And  we  came  to  a  place  on  the  shore 

Where  four  great  pine  trees  stood, 

And  underneath  them  wild  flowers  to  the  edge 

Of  sand  so  soft  for  naked  feet. 

And  here,  for  not  a  soul  was  near, 

We  stripped  and  swam  far  out,  laughing,  rejoicing, 

Rolling  and  diving  in  those  great  depths 

Of  bracing  water  under  a  glittering  sun. 

There  were  farm  houses  enough 

For  food  and  shelter. 

But  something  urged  us  on. 

One  knows  the  end  and  dreads  the  end 

Yet  seeks  the  end. 

And  you  asked,  "Is  there  a  town  near? 

Let's  see  a  town." 

So  we  walked  to  Traverse  City 

[1621 


IN  MICHIGAN 

Through  cut-over  land  and  blasted 

Trunks  and  stumps  of  pine, 

And  by  the  side  of  desolate  hills. 

But  when  we  got  to  Traverse  City 

You  were  not  content,  nor  was  I. 

Something  urged  us  on. 

Then  you  thought  of  Northport 

And  of  its  Norse  and  German  fishermen, 

And  its  quaint  piers  where  they  smoke  fish. 

So  we  drove  for  thirty  miles 

In  a  speeding  automobile 

Over  hills,  around  sudden  curves,  into  warm  coverts, 

Or  hollows,  sometimes  at  the  edge  of  the  Bay, 

Again  on  the  hill, 

From  where  we  could  see  Old  Mission 

Amid  blues  and  blacks,  across  a  score  of  miles  of  the 

Bay, 

Waving  like  watered  silk  under  the  moon  ! 
And  by  meadows  of  clover  newly  cut, 
And  by  peach  orchards  and  vineyards. 
But  when  we  came  to  the  little  town 
Already  asleep,  though  it  was  but  eight  o'clock, 
And  only  a  few  drowsy  lamps 
With  misty  eyelids  shone  from  a  store  or  two, 
I  said,  "Do  you  see  those  twinkling  lights  ? 
That's  Northport  Point,  that's  the  Cedar  Cabin  — 
Let's  go  to  the  Cedar  Cabin." 

[163] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

And  so  we  crossed  the  Bay 
Amid  great  waves  in  a  plunging  launch, 
And  a  roaring  breeze  and  a  great  moon, 
For  now  the  moon  was  full. 

So  here  was  the  Cedar  Cabin 

On  a  strip  of  land  as  wide  as  a  house  and  lawn, 

And  on  one  side  Lake  Michigan, 

And  on  one  side  the  Bay. 

There  were  distances  of  color  all  around, 

And  stars  and  darknesses  of  land  and  trees, 

And  at  the  point  the  lighthouse. 

And  over  us  the  moon, 

And  over  the  balcony  of  our  room 

All  of  these,  where  we  lay  till  I  slept, 

Listening  to  the  water  of  the  lake, 

And  the  water  of  the  Bay. 

And  we  saw  the  moon  sink  like  a  red  bomb, 

And  we  saw  the  stars  change 

As  the  sky  wheeled 

Now  this  was  the  end  of  the  earth, 

For  this  strip  of  land 

Ran  out  to  a  point  no  larger  than  one  of  the  stumps 

We  saw  on  the  desolate  hills. 

And  moreover  it  seemed  to  dive  under, 

Or  waste  away  in  a  sudden  depth  of  water. 

And  around  it  was  a  swirl, 

To  the  north  the  bounding  waves  of  the  Lake, 


IN  MICHIGAN 

And  to  the  south  the  Bay  which  seemed  the  Lake. 
But  could  we  speak  of  it,  even  though 
I  saw  your  eyes  when  you  thought  of  it  ? 
A  sigh  of  wind  blew  through  the  rustic  temple 
When  we  saw  this  symbol  together, 
And  neither  spoke. 

But  that  night,  somewhere  in  the  beginning  of  drowsi 
ness, 

You  said  :  "  There  is  no  further  place  to  go, 
We  must  retrace." 

And  I  awoke  in  a  torrent  of  light  in  the  room, 
Hearing  voices  and  steps  on  the  walk : 
I  looked  for  you, 
But  you  had  arisen. 
Then  I  dressed  and  searched  for  you, 
But  you  were  gone. 
Then  I  stood  for  long  minutes 
Looking  at  a  sail  far  out  at  sea 
And  departed  too. 


[165] 


J 


THE  STAR 


I  am  a  certain  god 

Who  slipped  down  from  a  remote  height 

To  a  place  of  pools  and  stars. 

And  I  sat  invisible 

Amid  a  clump  of  trees 

To  watch  the  madmen. 

There  were  cries  and  groans  about  me, 

And  shouts  of  laughter  and  curses. 

Figures  passed  by  with  self-absorbed  contempt, 

Wrinkling  in  bitter  smiles  about  their  lips. 

Others  hurried  on  with  set  eyes 

Pursuing  something. 

Then  I  said  this  is  the  place  for  mad  Frederick  • 

Mad  Frederick  will  be  here. 

But  everywhere  I  could  see 

Figures  sitting  or  standing 

By  little  pools. 

Some  seemed  grown  into  the  soil 

And  were  helpless. 

And  of  these  some  were  asleep. 

Others  laughed  the  laughter 

That  comes  from  dying  men 

[166] 


THE  STAR 

Trying  to  face  Death. 

And  others  said  "  I  should  be  content," 

And  others  said  "I  will  fly." 

Whereupon  sepulchral  voices  muttered, 

As  of  creatures  sitting  or  hanging  head  down 

From  limbs  of  the  trees, 

"We  will  not  let  you." 

And  others  looked  in  their  pools 

And  clasped  hands  and  said  "Gone,  all  gone." 

By  other  pools  there  were  dead  bodies : 

Some  of  youth,  some  of  age. 

They  had  given  up  the  fight, 

They  had  drunk  poisoned  water, 

They  had  searched 

Until  they  fell  — 

All  had  gone  mad  ! 

Then  I,  a  certain  god, 
Curious  to  know 
What  it  is  in  pools  and  stars 
That  drives  men  and  women 
Over  the  earth  in  this  quest 
Waited  for  mad  Frederick. 
And  then  I  heard  his  step. 

I  knew  that  long  ago 
He  sat  by  one  of  these  pools 
Enraptured  of  a  star's  image. 
And  that  hands,  for  his  own  good, 


I 

I 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 


As  they  said, 

Dumpld  clay  into  the  pool 

And  hArtted  his  star. 

And  IMpSw  that  after  that 

He  had  said,  "  They  will  never  spy  again 

Upon  my  ecstasy. 

They  will  never  see  me  watching  one  star. 

I  will  fly  by  rivers, 

And  by  little  brooks, 

And  by  the  edge  of  lakes, 

And  by  little  bends  of  water, 

Where  no  wind  blows, 

And  glance  at  stars  as  I  pass. 

They  will  never  spy  again 

Upon  my  ecstasy." 

And  I  knew  that  mad  Frederick 
In  this  flight 

Through  years  of  restless  and  madness 
Was  caught  by  the  image  of  a  star 
In  a  mere  beyond  a  meadow 
Down  from  a  hill,  under  a  forest, 
And  had  said, 
"  No  one  sees  ; 
Here  I  can  find  life, 
Through  vision  of  eternal  things." 
But  they  had  followed  him. 
They  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
[168! 


THE  STAR 

And  when  they  saw  him  gazing  in  the  water 

They  rolled  a  great  stone  down  the  hill, 

And  shattered  the  star's  image. 

Then  mad  Frederick  fled  with  laughter. 

It  echoed  through  the  wood. 

And  he  said,  "  I  will  look  for  moons, 

I  will  punish  them  who  disturb  me, 

By  worshiping  moons." 

But  when  he  sought  moons 

They  left  him  alone, 

And  he  did  not  want  the  moons. 

And  he  was  alone,  and  sick  from  the  moons, 

And  covered  as  with  a  white  blankness, 

Which  was  the  worst  madness  of  all. 

And  I,  a  certain  god, 

Waiting  for  mad  Frederick 

To  enter  this  place  of  pools  and  stars, 

Saw  him  at  last. 

With  a  sigh  he  looked  about  upon  his  fellows 

Sitting  or  standing  by  their  pools. 

And  some  of  the  pools  were  covered  with  scum, 

And  some  were  glazed  as  of  filth, 

And  some  were  grown  with  weeds, 

And  some  were  congealed  as  of  the  north  wind, 

And  a  few  were  yet  pure, 

And  held  the  star's  image. 

And  by  these  some  sat  and  were  glad, 

[169] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Others  had  lost  the  vision. 

The  star  was  there,  but  its  meaning  vanished. 

And  mad  Frederick,  going  here  and  there, 

With  no  purpose, 

Only  curious  and  interested 

As  I  was,  a  certain  god, 

Came  by  a  certain  pool 

And  saw  a  star. 

He  shivered, 

He  clasped  his  hands, 

He  sank  to  his  knees, 

He  touched  his  lips  to  the  water. 

Then  voices  from  the  limbs  of  the  trees  muttered 

"There  he  is  again." 

"He  must  be  driven  away." 

"The  pool  is  not  his." 

"He  does  not  belong  here." 

So  as  when  bats  fly  in  a  cave 

They  swooped  from  their  hidings  in  the  trees 

And  dashed  themselves  in  the  pool. 

Then  I  saw  what  these  flying  things  were  — 

But  no  matter. 

They  were  illusions,  evil  and  envious 

And  dull, 

But  with  power  to  destroy. 

And  mad  Frederick  turned  away  from  the  pool 

And  covered  his  eyes  with  his  arms. 

[170] 


THE  STAR 

Then  a  certain  god, 

Of  less  power  than  mine, 

Came  and  sat  beside  me  and  said  : 

"Why  do  you  allow  this  to  be  ? 

They  are  all  seeking, 

Why  do  you  not  let  them  find  their  heart's  delight  ? 

Why  do  you  allow  this  to  be?" 

But  I  did  not  answer. 

The  lesser  god  did  not  know 

That  I  have  no  power, 

That  only  the  God  has  the  power. 

And  that  this  must  be 

In  spite  of  all  lesser  gods. 

And  I  saw  mad  Frederick 

Arise  and  ascend  to  the  top  of  a  high  hill, 

And  I  saw  him  find  the  star 

Whose  image  he  had  seen  in  the  pool. 

Then  he  knelt  and  prayed  : 

"  Give  me  to  understand,  O  Star, 

Your  inner  self,  your  eternal  spirit, 

That  I  may  have  you  and  not  images  of  you, 

So  that  I  may  know  what  has  driven  me  through  the 

world, 

And  may  cure  my  soul. 
For  I  know  you  are  Eternal  Love, 
And  I  can  never  escape  you. 
And  if  I  cannot  escape  you, 

[171] 


SONGS  AND  SATIRES 

Then  I  must  serve  you. 

And  if  I  must  serve  you, 

It  must  be  to  good  and  not  ill  — 

You  have  brought  me  from  the  forest  of  pools 

And  the  images  of  stars, 

Here  to  the  hill's  top. 

Where  now  do  I  go  ? 

And  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 


THE    END 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 

[172] 


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MY  1  3  1971  4  9 

rln  1       *                                   vi 

i 

f    .  .  .  .                     A 

foil  2  4  1983 

fiECCIR  m    2  '83 

LD  62A-30m-2,'69 
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General  Library 

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